


ghost of you

by GuenVanHelsing



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Beskar Is Magnetic because i said so, Cameos of various characters, Cobb Vanth's Red Scarf, Din Djarin Gets A Bath, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din-centric Fic, Force Ghost(s), Grief/Mourning, Introspective Din Djarin, M/M, Many many hugs, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Season/Series 02, Slime, So much angst, Temporary Character Death, The Galaxy's Most Reluctant Uber Driver, Wishes, im not kidding about the graphic depiction of violence y'all, so much slime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29500323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuenVanHelsing/pseuds/GuenVanHelsing
Summary: Din's been hearing voices.Well, one voice.At first he thought it was just wishful thinking, wondering what Cobb Vanth might say if he was there.But the more he heard, the more he began to wonder if it was something else entirely…
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 115
Kudos: 88
Collections: DinCobb Valentine's Bingo 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fledgling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fledgling/gifts).



> @fledgling wanted a ghost fic and here's what u get bb hope u like it <333
> 
> _Tw for implied character death_

_ Didn’t take you for a man to let that slide, _ said Cobb, the drawl of his voice and a puff of warm Tatooine air against his ear almost visceral enough to believe it was real, as real as the angry man who had just spit on his armor. 

Din didn’t know when he’d started wishing it  _ was _ real. 

Maybe a month or so in his new ship — new to him, older than dirt caked on its landing gear — when the little whispers of a rasping voice he’d been imagining as running commentary to his rather pathetic current lifestyle had started. 

_ You should take better care of yourself, _ the voice had said, when Din had laid down in his bunk — and it was an honest to maker  _ bunk, _ with a pillow and blankets if he felt like it, not that he bothered when in full armor — and Din had glared at the ceiling above him for a long, futile moment before hauling himself out of the bunk and rummaging through his stores until he found some rations to rehydrate. 

They tasted disgusting, but he did feel a little better, and the voice, while silent, had been  _ pleased. _

A little smug, really, if Din was being honest. 

Even if it was all in his head — the roguish smile from the corner of his eye, the warm huff of laughter curling around his ears like Cobb was standing right behind him, a sly comment when Din was being an idiot — it made him feel a little less…

_...lonely. _

And oh, Din was lonely. 

He hadn’t thought himself someone to yearn for companionship, but having the kid around had spoiled him. Sitting alone in the cockpit of his ship and crunching on a — likely expired — ration bar had little appeal when he’d gotten used to sharing mealtimes with Grogu. 

_ Grogu. _

His heart ached at the thought of him. 

As much as he mourned the loss of the  _ Razor Crest, _ it was… easier, in some ways, not to have constant reminders of the kid around. There were no phantom, tiny footsteps on the durasteel floors; no empty hammock swinging above his sleeping space; and no memories of the kid shrieking in laughter from the seat behind his pilot’s seat. 

He had nothing but memories of the both of them, his ship, and his kid—

—and kriff, did it  _ hurt _ to admit that Grogu had been  _ his kid, _ if only for a little while— 

—and little else than a Creed held together by hope and sheer force of will, a saber with the weight of an entire people behind it he didn’t want, and memories. 

He feared that, one day, he would take off his helmet, and shatter what little Creed he had left, and he knew he would shatter along with it. The armor was holding him together, as much as he was himself. 

Quiet, ghostly reminders to eat, or snide remarks on bounties causing mischief,  _ those _ kept the cracks in his armor — in  _ Din _ — from spreading further, from reducing him to a broken wreck. 

Sometimes he wondered if any of it had even happened, or if he’d been disintegrated along with the  _ Crest. _

It felt like it, sometimes, when he turned and found no one there. 

Sometimes, if he closed his eyes and pretended hard enough, he could imagine Cobb sitting next to him, the kid at his side, the three of them sharing a meal around a Tusken fire in the cool desert night. 

When he opened his eyes, though, he was always on the ship. 

Cold. 

And alone. 

—

“I’m lonely.” 

He hadn’t said the words out loud before. 

Hadn’t  _ admitted _ them to anyone. 

And he still hadn’t — it was just him, and his ship, and the carbonite-bound mark he’s picked up on his way to Nevarro. The spitter. 

The voice in his head had been suspiciously quiet for a while, and maybe Din was goading it, hoping to hear even the faint facsimile of a familiar voice, by saying it. 

Maybe he was admitting to  _ himself _ that he meant it. 

He  _ was _ lonely. 

He wondered if he could convince Cobb to leave his little sand-flats town, to join him across the galaxy, even just for a little while. 

“I wish you were here,” said Din aloud, and  _ finally _ the voice spoke back. 

_ Wishes are powerful things, partner, _ came the soft drawl.  _ Ain’t that why I’m here? _

That could very well be the case. 

After all, it wasn’t  _ Cobb _ talking to him. 

Just his voice, that Din was imagining, because it seemed all of late the only things he wanted were out of his reach. 

Well—

“Tatooine isn’t that far,” he said, and pushed himself up, knees creaking from how long he’d been sitting cross-legged on the hard floor. “Would be good to have Peli take a look over this ship, anyway.” 

The voice was silent. 

Din frowned, and checked on his cargo — the vitals on the carbonite were normal, and he should have a little more time before the ship would drop out of hyperspace. “Maybe take the time to visit Mos Pelgo, too.” 

_Peli isn’t in Mos Pelgo, partner. No reason for you to take this beast there._ _Might scare the locals._

“Wouldn’t you like to see me?” said Din, and stopped, frowning under his helmet. What had he just done? Had he been— 

—teasing? 

A kriffing imaginary  _ voice _ in his  _ head? _

The voice in question was dry as any desert wind.  _ You’ll find no cure for loneliness in Mos Pelgo, Mandalorian. And you know it. _

“You don’t know that,” said Din. The cockpit of the ship was cool, but he didn’t adjust the thermals. No point, when the control panel told him it was only a few minutes more before the drop. “I’m not running this time.” 

_ Aren’t you? _

“I’m not,” repeated Din. The stars zipping past in streaks of white were hypnotising, for a moment, until he shook his head to clear it. “I’m  _ not.” _

_ You wouldn’t stay. _ It wasn’t a question. 

“You don’t know that.” 

_ It isn’t your home. _

“I don’t  _ have _ a home,” snapped Din, and punched the alarm off before bringing the ship out of hyperspace, guiding it down into the atmosphere of Nevarro. 

Nevarro had been his home, once. 

No—

The  _ Razor Crest _ had been his home, once. 

She was gone, and Din didn’t even have a name for this ship yet. 

Had been avoiding it, really. 

Naming something meant  _ knowing _ it, loving it, in a way. 

Everything he’d named, he’d lost. Giving the ship a name seemed just one more way to tempt the universe to deliver it to a fiery fate. 

Maybe he was being superstitious. Maybe he was just being practical. 

Eventually, the only thing left to take would be his life, and the universe sure had a way of making attempts for even  _ that _ more and more frequently. 

Maybe the universe just wanted him dead. 

Din shook his head, tabling those thoughts for later. He had to land the ship.

At least Greef wasn’t hard to find, and he’d been happy to fork over the credits owed to Din for the bounty. No beskar ingots, this time, but with Greef being so up and above the law these days, Din wasn’t particularly surprised. 

Not like he had a covert to take them back to, anyway. 

He hadn’t heard a word from the Armorer, or any of the others, since they had helped him escape the firefight. 

_ You miss them. _

Din didn’t merit  _ that  _ comment from the voice with a response — wasn’t worth it, and anyway, he didn’t need Greef thinking he’d lost his marbles along with everything else. “Do you have anything new for me?” he said instead. 

Greef sighed heavily. “Sorry, Mando, times are tight, and I’ve a slew of small bounties already being picked up elsewhere.” Din waited, and Greef added, “Maybe next week, if you’re in town. Might have something big for you then.” 

It was a little too calculating, the gleam in Greef’s eyes and the way he sized him up, but Din had nothing else on his  _ busy _ social calendar. “If I’m in town,” he agreed, inclining his helmet slightly. 

Hesitated, as Greef seemed to be preparing himself to get back to his magisterial duties. 

Din took a breath. Took a chance. “Do you— have a home?” 

Greef rocked back on his heels, eyebrows raising. Always so theatrical, that man. “Of course I have a home, Mando, what kind of question is that? You looking to purchase some real estate on Nevarro?” He chortled, like Din was in on some joke. Which he wasn’t. “What’s this about, Mando?” 

“Nothing,” said Din. “Forget I asked.” 

Greef shrugged, raising his hands dismissively. “It’s forgotten. Cara’s somewhere around here, if you want to stick around for a hello.”

“I won’t keep you,” said Din. A week, until he had a substantial destination. 

A week would be plenty to go to Tatooine. 

—

_ You won’t find what you’re looking for here, partner. _

“You don’t know that,” said Din automatically, listening to the whirs and clicks of the engines shutting down, still unfamiliar even after all this time in the ship. He could hear the shrieks of Peli’s droids, likely disturbed by his ship’s sudden landing, and muffled shouting beyond that, likely Peli. “Maybe you don’t know what I’m looking for.” 

_ Do you? _

Din ignored the voice and smacked the panel to lower the ramp — Peli was marching toward him, a wrench in hand, and he grimaced behind his helmet. 

_ Now _ he remembered why he’d been avoiding Tatooine. 

“Mando!” shouted Peli, and yes, she whacked him right across the cuirass with her wrench before he had the sense to lift his arms and block her. “It’s been  _ months, _ you son of a bantha herder, not a single word or nothing! Where  _ is _ the little womp rat? You hiding him on your new junk bucket?” 

“No,” said Din quietly, and this time he blocked the wrench before she could whack him again. “He’s safe, he’s— with his people now.” 

Peli narrowed her eyes at him, and in that moment she was more intimidating than any foe Din had ever faced. 

Should’ve brought her to rescue the kid — she would’ve taken down Moff Gideon in minutes and saved Din the trouble of dealing with the darksaber. 

“Not even a holo to say goodbye,” she said with a sniff, and turned away, calling to her droids, before leveling a glare over her shoulder at him. “I suppose you’ll be wanting that rusty heap fixed up.” 

“If you have the time.” 

Peli scoffed. “You need a speeder, as well? Maybe a room for the night? A hot breakfast?” 

“A speeder, if you have one.” 

“If you break this one,” she said, leveling her wrench at him, “I’m keeping the ship.” 

That seemed fair, somehow. 

—

Two days in the desert had Din wondering if he was making a mistake, going back to Mos Pelgo. 

If he ever got there. 

By the time the suns were setting on the second day, Din was starting to fear that either he’d missed the town entirely, or that something bigger than a krayt dragon had dug its way to the surface and swallowed the town and everyone else in it. 

Then he saw the domed roofs rise along the horizon, the twinkling lights what he’d mistaken for stars, and he could breathe a little easier. 

He was almost there. 

He could see Cobb again. 

_ No, you won’t, _ said the voice, something heavy in the tone like grief, and Din pushed it away. 

Din’s borrowed speeder coughed up sand as he leaned on the brakes, slowing as he approached the outskirts of the town. It was bigger than he remembered, a little more sprawling, a little more settled. Like the inhabitants weren’t living in fear of what lived underneath them, for once. 

The cantina was where he remembered it, and it was busy — or busier than last he’d seen it, anyway. Almost every table was occupied, a low buzz of conversation hesitating just a moment when he walked in before resuming. 

“Mando,” said the Weequay bartender, a familiar face amongst the crowd — and no sign of the marshal amidst them, that he could see — and Din changed course to greet him at the bar. “It is good to see you. A drink?” 

“No, thank you,” said Din, catching the bartender’s glance at his side, the lack of child there an open, aching absence. “I’m— looking for the marshal.” 

Why he kept his voice low, he didn’t know. 

But—

—maybe he did, seeing the sorrow in the bartender’s eyes. 

“No,” he whispered. 

_ I told you, _ whispered the voice, low and sad.  _ You wouldn’t find what you’re looking for here. _

—

The Weequay — his name was Werlo, Din discovered — left the bar under the stern eye of a sharp-mouthed woman and led Din outside, a bottle of spotchka glowing dimly blue in his hand. 

“Near a month ago, now,” said Werlo, and he poured spotchka into two small cups Din hadn’t seen him carrying in his other hand, passing one to Din. It was cold in his hand, all the way through his glove, or maybe that was the bitter night wind, or the cold emptiness spreading in his lungs. “Something fell from the sky. We all thought it was a ship, at first, some unfortunate soul not prepared for the descent through the atmosphere.” He glanced at Din, solemn. “Our marshal went to investigate.

“Not alone, mind, he had two of the braver folks at his back. Brought some supplies, figuring if there would be survivors to the crash, they’d be in need of aid. Out there in the desert, it’s unforgiving, you know this. So they went, together. Gone for nearly a day. 

Werlo lifted his cup, the soft glow illuminating the ridges of his face. “Two of them came back,” he said quietly. “The marshal didn’t.” 

Din’s hands were shaking, his head light, like it might disengage from his shoulders and float away. “What happened,” he said, his voice cracking, and Werlo tapped his cup gently to Din’s. 

“We saw the beast rise from the surface,” he said, grimly, “although then we didn’t know it  _ was _ a beast. Not til Avaale and Dulbri returned, and told us what had transpired.” He raised his cup again, head tipping back and the light from the two visible moons bright in his eyes. The bartender was crying, Din realised. 

Din wondered if he could cry, too, or if he had nothing left in him. 

“It swallowed him, that thing,” said Werlo. “It went for Dulbri, and he pushed her clear.” 

“And it took him instead,” said Din quietly. Werlo gave a nod, and lifted his cup to his lips. 

Din hesitated, then pushed up his helmet, the hiss of the motion lost in the wind. 

Spotchka burned, salty and strong, and he swallowed it anyway. 

Werlo was still looking skywards when Din lowered his helmet back into place, and only when Din coughed to clear his stinging throat did the bartender look to him. “I am sorry your quest to us was for naught,” he said, and he meant it, sincerely. How Din knew that, he wasn’t sure, but he knew. “You are welcome to stay as long as you need.” 

“Thank you,” said Din. He couldn’t make his voice any louder, barely audible over the wind. Didn’t know if he’d shatter if he tried. “I should— go.” 

“Stay the night, Mando. It’s a long ride across the desert in the dark.” 

Din didn’t want to impose. 

He didn’t want to get lost or ambushed in the dark, though, either. 

“Come,” said Werlo, gesturing back to the cantina. “Avaale is here tonight, they can take you to the marshal’s house. You can sleep there tonight.” 

Protests rose and withered on his tongue, and Din wordlessly followed Werlo back into the cantina. 

—

Avaale was a somber fellow, broad shouldered and tall, with long, dark hair plaited down their back. They said nothing more than the perfunctory greeting when Werlo introduced them, leading Din through the town under the moonlight, to near the outskirts, where the buildings were lower, built further into the ground. 

“Here,” said Avaale, their voice abrupt, rapping their knuckles on the door they’d stopped in front of. “The door is unlocked. Likely to be some stored rations in the cupboards, if you care to look.” They stared at Din, face impassive, and he waited. 

The wind seemed intent on biting through every chink in his armor, through the very layers of his flightsuit. 

Din waited. 

“He was my friend,” said Avaale. “You didn’t know him long, but he held you in high regard. Trusted you.” Another beat of silence, and Avaale looked away, face hard. 

_ Trying not to cry, _ whispered the voice, but it was unnecessary — Din could see the tears threatening to spill from Avaale’s dark eyes. 

He had no words to offer them, nothing that could ease their pain. 

Couldn’t do anything to ease his own numbness. 

Avaale inhaled deeply, letting out the breath in a grating huff, and pulled something from where it had been tucked at their belt, holding it out to Din. 

Offering it. 

_ My scarf, _ whispered the voice. 

“It came undone, when he saved us,” said Avaale, voice gruff. “All that was left, when it took him. Take it.” 

Din balked. “It isn’t—” 

“You should have it,” Avaale insisted, and Din closed his fingers automatically to stop the scarf from dropping to the ground when Avaale shoved it into his hand. “Carry it with you, Mandalorian, so that he may be carried with you, as well.” 

Din’s fingers tightened on the fabric. He couldn’t feel the texture through his heavy gloves, but he imagined it was soft. 

“You brought down the dragon,” said Avaale, their voice sharp, but it wasn’t in anger. “And we are grateful for it, all of us. But you’re to stay here not because of that, understand? Because of him.” 

Din  _ didn’t _ understand, but he nodded anyway, because Avaale was turning away, shoulders tense and a sniffle snatched by the wind, conversation done. He watched them walk away, disappearing into the dark, before he dared to press the panel to open the door to Cobb’s home. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. 

Not this — the emptiness of a dust-laden house, the small rooms built with curving stone walls, windows shuttered against the wind and sands and long since yielding a smidgeon of space for grains of sand to sneak in and spread across the tiled floor. 

Everything woven was reds and oranges and yellows, bright and full of life — the blanket over the back of a thin sofa, the upholstery, the bedspread in the bedroom that Din took one look at and backed away from. 

No one had lived in that house since Cobb, he realised, and nothing had been touched. 

As if it was holding its breath, waiting for him to return. 

Din sank to his knees there on the floor, the scarf still clutched in his hand. 

Cobb wouldn’t return. 

He never would. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can have a little Cobb POV. as a treat. <3
> 
> _Tw mentions of implied character death, disordered eating_

Cobb hadn’t known what to expect when reports of a crashed ship reached him from the day’s scouts — Avaale and Dulbri had insisted on joining him, and he was grateful for them both at his back as their speeders neared the wreckage. 

Only— 

—it wasn’t wreckage. 

The hulking silhouette  _ lurched, _ rising up from the disturbed sands, and Cobb wrenched on the speeder’s controls, skidding sideways to avoid crashing into the sudden arch of a long, scaled limb rising up and up and  _ up. _

It was massive. 

Bigger than any ship Cobb had ever seen — no Death Star, but it didn’t need to be, with eight disjointed limbs and a sinuous body with too many teeth in its twice-damned jaws, and a chitinous body that moved with too much speed for its size. 

And when it opened those jaws, the  _ scream _ that tore loose from it was like a knife through his ears, spearing him right through every inch of his body, and Cobb howled, drowned out by that loud roar, fearing that his ears were bleeding.

Blasters were ineffective, and if he’d still had his Mandalorian armor, Cobb wasn’t sure if even the targeted rockets would have done more than scratch the plates of the beast’s body. 

Cobb didn’t remember much of what happened, just bursting into a run to shove Dulbri out of the way, unable to bear the crunch of bones under those jagged teeth, and then—

—nothing. 

He floated, for a while. 

Listened, for longer. 

Wondered what the hell was going on. 

If Avaale and Dulbri were alright, or if the creature had gotten them, too. 

He knew, vaguely, that they had survived. 

Knew that Mos Pelgo still stood, that the beast had spared the rest of them. Had fled the very surface of the planet, too, as soon as it had him. 

After that, it was all a bit blurry. 

And then an aching, terrible  _ loneliness _ had called to him, across an untold number of stars, and he’d listened. 

Listened, and when he opened his eyes, he was there, with that lonely soul, far from Tatooine. 

Just him, in a strange ship, with the Mandalorian. 

Alone. 

—

The Mandalorian couldn’t see him. 

He was  _ there _ — he could knock things over, if they were small enough, if he focused enough, but the effort was exhausting, and he could only watch Din pick up fallen items with a heavy sigh so many times in a cycle before it just got depressing. 

_ Din. _

It felt strange to have the Mandalorian’s name, plucked from the air as easily as if it had been offered, and it  _ hadn’t _ been. Cobb had just looked at him, and he’d known. 

Din Djarin. 

The Mandalorian. 

Cobb’s once-time armor wasn’t on the ship — and he’d looked, scoured the ship from top to bottom — but then again, there wasn’t much else on the ship, either. Some weapons. Rations. A bed the Mandalorian rarely seemed to sleep in, sitting up in the cockpit for hours and jerking awake to the alarm of an upcoming hyperspace drop rather than lay down on the inviting bunk. 

Didn’t even fucking  _ eat, _ more often than not, and the Mandalorian’s inability — or simply  _ intentional ignorance _ — of taking care of himself had Cobb seething silently, unseen and unknown. 

_ You need to eat, _ he finally yelled at him, from across the cargo bay of the ship, after another tedious collection of blurred hours of Din calmly cleaning every piece of his beskar armor methodically and completely ignoring the rumbling of his stomach. 

Din dropped the vambrace he’d been cleaning. 

“I’m not—” he began, and stopped, helmet tilting slightly to the side as a frustrated sigh escaped him. “I’m not hungry.” 

_ You need to eat anyway, _ snapped Cobb, and considered whether he’d be able to pick up the fallen vambrace and whack the Mandalorian with it on his stupid shiny helmet.  _ You haven’t eaten in over a cycle, partner. _

“Oh,” said Din softly. He picked up the vambrace and strapped it back onto his forearm, donning the rest of his armor and standing. The tools of his cleaning were still laid out on the floor, but for once he left them there, moving to one of the storage compartments and rummaging around until he reemerged with a packet of reheatable rations in his gloved hand. “Happy now?” he said drily to the empty air as he mixed water into the packet, and Cobb  _ was, _ a bit. 

Then Cobb saw the Mandalorian reach for his helmet, pushing it up with a small hiss of the motion, and he spun around, heart in his throat. 

He wasn’t meant to see that, invisible or no. 

Invisible… 

Cobb looked down at his hands, pale blue and see-through. 

It didn’t matter what he saw, did it? 

The Mandalorian couldn’t do anything to him — he was already dead. 

Cobb still didn’t turn around until he heard Din’s helmet settle back into place. 

—

Time was meaningless to Cobb, existing as he did between one moment and the next. He didn’t know it had been a month since the creature had crashed to the surface of Tatooine until Din was standing there, listening to Werlo tell him of the marshal’s fate. 

It was strange, hearing his friend’s voice, seeing him speak. Seeing him  _ weep, _ openly, for the loss of him. Cobb could rest one invisible hand on the Weequay’s shoulder, but Werlo could not feel it, could not see him. 

Avaale took Din to Cobb’s house — and oh, wasn’t  _ that _ a weird sight, to see the Mandalorian in his own home, unable to offer him caf or a bite to eat, or even tell him how to bump the controls in the sonic to get the proper flow of air. 

Couldn’t do anything but watch as the Mandalorian slowly lifted the scarf Avaale had given him —  _ Cobb’s _ scarf — and tied it around his neck, tucking it close over his cloak, the ends falling down his back just as Cobb had worn it. 

Looked a little odd on him, couldn’t be helped — the cloak made it bunch up a bit toward his helmet more than Cobb’s shirt ever had — and the colour itself was startling on the usual drab and chrome of the Mandalorian’s outfit. 

Suited him, though. 

Or that was just Cobb’s own desires, reveling in the sight of Din Djarin wearing something so intrinsically  _ his. _

Ghosts couldn’t cry, anyway, no matter how his eyes burned. 

Maybe that was a blessing, in itself. 

Cobb doubted he’d be able to stop, if he ever got started. 

—

It had occurred to Cobb, over the month —  _ month! _ — traveling with the Mandalorian, that the fellow was a bit of an idiot when it came to self-preservation. 

Sure, he was a highly capable strategist, and more than capable with any of the weapons that made their way into his hands, but his tendency for  _ strategy _ seemed to lean a bit heavily toward Din getting very close shaves with his own mortality. 

This theory of his was proven, unequivocally, when Din Djarin took it upon himself to do something remarkably stupid, in Cobb’s opinion — track down the beast that had killed Cobb Vanth. 

_ How _ he did it, Cobb didn’t really understand — something about a signature, something magnetic that drew the point of some compass that Cobb didn’t understand in the slightest — but there they were, aboard Din’s ship, sinking unerringly through the atmosphere of a planet Cobb had never set foot before. 

Never set foot on any planet, other than Tatooine, although he’d seen more planets than he had names for just during his travels with Din. 

But this one— 

—Gudulioth, Din’s contact had called it— 

—Cobb  _ knew _ what lurked there, under the surface, as inevitable as any tracking fob. Could feel it in his bones, if he had any. 

_ The beast was there. _

“I know,” said Din quietly, and Cobb startled, not realising he’d been heard. Din’s helmet faced unerringly toward the transparasteel, at the ground creeping closer by the second. “I have to do this.” 

_ No, you don’t. _

The  _ idiot _ went unsaid, but Din huffed low, almost a laugh, as if he’d heard it anyway. 

Maybe he had. 

It was starting to get harder to differentiate what he did and didn’t say, since he wasn’t really speaking, anyway. 

_ Don’t do this, _ he tried, but if Din heard him, he didn’t answer. 

Maybe he hadn’t said anything at all. 

—

_ Don’t do this. _

Din didn’t answer. 

_ Couldn’t _ answer. 

Couldn’t explain to the voice — the Cobb-but-not-Cobb voice in his head — that he  _ needed _ to do this. 

Needed to defeat at least one element that had taken something from him, even if it would do nothing to lessen the loss itself. 

He couldn’t do anything for the loss of the  _ Crest _ — she was gone, and replaced, with his unnamed ship. Couldn’t do anything for the loss of his agency, the darksaber swinging heavily at his hip, an unwanted weight. 

Couldn’t do anything about the loss of the kid. 

Grogu. 

_ Grogu. _

He missed him. 

He would give anything to hunt down that Jedi — as nameless as his ship, to Din, and wasn’t that just a kick in the teeth, that his kid had gone with someone and Din didn’t even know his  _ name, _ let alone where to find him — and take back the kid. 

But he wouldn’t. 

Couldn’t. 

It wasn’t what Grogu wanted, and he was safe with the Jedi. 

Safer far, far away from Din. 

That ached all on its own, a stinging, bottomless echo of moments lost. 

He hadn’t known the kid long, but some part of Din had toddled off with him when he’d gone to the Jedi of his own volition. 

Maybe he’d left a part of him in the Tatooine desert, too, amidst the bones of the krayt dragon, in the handshake of a silver-haired marshal. In the mirage of him, shimmering in Din’s mind’s eye long after the  _ Crest _ had lifted away from the planet. 

Din had known Cobb for less than a standard week. 

Hadn’t really known him at all. 

Didn’t fully know why he felt the aching absence of him at his side, day in and day out, for longer than he’d known he was gone. 

_ Please, _ whispered the voice, and Din said nothing, strapping a blaster to his thigh along with the one in its holster, slinging the beskar spear to sit at his back behind his jetpack. The darksaber at his waist, always. 

He hadn’t pressed the button to summon the onyx blade since the defeat of Gideon. 

The tracking fob he’d cobbled together with a compass to track the beast was useless the moment he stepped foot on the craggy ground of Gudulioth — it reminded him of Nevarro, volcanic and barren, but while Nevarro had been hot and dry, this planet was warm and  _ damp, _ a thin mist falling incessantly and stubborn shrubs growing valiantly between cracks in the stones. 

“Where  _ is _ it?” he muttered, but the voice was silent, not that he expected much assistance on that front. Shaking the fob did nothing to make it settle on a single point, but it made him feel a little better before he shoved the useless thing into one of the pouches on his belt. 

He made a note of where he’d left his ship, and started walking. 

A creature that big, there were sure to have been remnants of its passing somewhere. 

Had to be. 

It only took him three hours to find anything — the dust had long settled, but the crater impact of the beast’s landing was carved into the rock, the cause of it long gone but the shards of stone and the glittering flecks of discarded scales lingered. 

And by the look of it, it was comfortable using its long limbs to navigate the ground as well as traversing between worlds — massive gouges in the cracked rock led away from the crater. 

Din followed the tracks. 

The further he went, the more the tracks became obscured, whether by age or by the multiple passages by the beast. Either that, or there was more than one, and Din grit his teeth and pushed that thought aside. One marshal-killing beast he could take, surely, but two… 

_ This is a fool’s errand, _ whispered the voice, and Din huffed a sigh, pulling himself up the stepped ledges of a particularly steep section of rock formations — no easy route around, and he didn’t dare waste the fuel of his jetpack if he needed to flee in a hurry. Or risk being spotted before he got a good look at his quarry first. 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered, when the voice didn’t elaborate. “Needs doing, nonetheless.” 

_ Does it? _ whispered the voice.  _ Is it worth giving up your life as well? _

“I’ve no plans to die today,” said Din, sliding down an incline with a clatter of scattered stones, and lifted his head, pressing a hand to the controls to bring up the heat sensors in his HUD. 

_ You were swallowed by the last beast you went up against, partner. _

“I got out of that one, didn’t I?” No heat signatures out of the ordinary, just small lifesigns skittering in and out of view over the endless, cold landscape. His joints ached, either from the cold or the wet or something else, and he ignored it. 

_ Barely, _ whispered the voice, and the word was barely there, either. The voice was so faint, under the ringing in his ears. 

Which was new, for that matter. 

Din frowned, tilting his head. He wasn’t imagining it — a strange, low hum was building at the edge of his hearing. 

And if he adjusted the audio settings in his helmet— 

_ “There _ you are,” he muttered, turning almost a full ninety degrees and heading toward the source of the sound. Dulbri had mentioned a ringing in her ears when they’d drawn close to the beast, and it was the only clue Din had left to follow. 

_ It isn’t worth it, partner. _

“It is to me,” said Din, and the ringing noise was  _ loud, _ now, loud enough he had to adjust the audio filters on his helmet not to let the buzzing sink right into his skull. 

And when he scaled the next incline, he saw it. 

Across the deepest crater he’d seen on the planet yet, practically a valley, was the gaping, cavernous opening into the rock, open wide as any toothed mouth. 

Din didn’t need the helmet’s sensors to tell him what he could feel in his very bones. 

That was the beast’s lair. 

The voice stayed silent as Din crept closer, swinging the beskar spear down from his back, just in case. It felt heavier than usual, or maybe it was his armor that did — either way, every step seemed a struggle the closer to the cavern opening he got. 

“Are you doing that?” he whispered, but the voice said nothing. He was almost there, anyway, just a few more steps—

—and Din staggered forward, dragged by some invisible force that jerked him down to one knee, the beskar spear ripped from his hand to sail across to the cavern entrance, clanging against the stone and sticking there as if held by some invisible grip with a sound loud and clear as any bell. 

“Dank  _ farrik,” _ breathed Din, and he felt a rumble in the ground beneath him, the low bellow of some old, hungry thing. 

He’d woken it up. 

And every second he stayed there, he was dragged a scraping inch further toward the entrance, tugged by every piece of beskar on his body, by the durasteel at his belt, the blaster threatening to slip free from its holster, the darksaber stretched out from its clip at his belt like it was trying to escape him. 

_ Get out of here, _ hissed the voice, and Din didn’t need to be told twice — he forced his legs to straighten, and staggered away from the cavern entrance, holding the blaster tight to his hip so he wouldn’t lose another weapon. 

Kriff, the  _ spear. _

His right pauldron was trembling, and Din let go of the blaster to clap his hand against his shoulder instead. The mudhorn signet was bumpy under his palm, and he pressed harder, forcing his legs to move faster. 

He couldn’t lose that part of the kid, too. 

At least the further away from the lair he got, the more the pressure on his joints eased, and he realised it had been the pressure of the armor being tugged against his body the entire time. 

“Magnetic,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the cavern, almost out of sight in the curve of the crater, and sighed. The beast hadn’t emerged from its lair, but Din was back to square one. Unless he lured the beast out of its lair somehow, he wouldn’t be able to hunt it down inside its own home. 

Sensible, really, to bring it out of its home turf. 

But he’d so hoped to be able to sneak up on it before it caught wind of him, and deal with it with a spear to whatever soft parts it had. 

Din turned back to continue retracing his steps back to his ship and make a new plan, and startled. 

A small creature, nearly half his height, was standing in front of him, several lengths away, as if they had just stepped out from behind an outcropping — and they probably had. They regarded him with big, dark eyes, ones that made his chest ache for a moment at the memory of similar eyes in the face of the kid, but this creature’s face was longer in the snout, more like a soft massiff with long, floppy ears that hung down to the creature’s shoulders. 

“You should not be here,” said the creature, their voice an odd intonance, as if there was another voice speaking underneath it. “Come, we must leave.” 

“Wait—” 

“Follow me,” said the creature in a tone that brooked no argument. 

_ Follow them, _ whispered the voice, weary. 

Din swallowed his protests, and followed them. 

They walked for an hour, over craggy landscape that looked the same to Din the further they walked, and just when he’d begun to wonder if they were just leading him in circles, the creature beckoned for him to duck into a crevice in the wall. 

Or rather, not a crevice at all, but a trick of the eyes — the crevice was wider than Din was tall, and opened out into a well-lit dwelling. Long, narrow tunnels carved into the stone allowed access for air, and by the endless dripping of liquid into pots set below them, for water, as well. 

“You know what it is,” said Din, when the creature made no indication of elaborating on who they were or why they asked Din to come there. “That thing.” 

“I know what it is,” said the creature, voice drier than any surface on Tatooine. “We do not speak its name here.” They offered a small cup of water, and Din took it, more to not offend them than that he was thirsty. 

He  _ was _ thirsty, really. 

He didn’t need the voice nagging him to lift his helmet up enough to sip the water — odd-tasting, as if it had brought a bit of the rock around them with it into his mouth — not that the voice had anything to say, apparently. 

“Thank you,” he said, when the creature said nothing further, just sipped from their own cup. “For the water.” 

“The water is freely given,” said the creature. “The warning is not.” Those soft dark eyes looked a little less soft in the orange-tinged light from the lamps. “You should leave, stranger, before the beast takes more than it has already taken from you.” 

Din didn’t know what to do with his cup. There was nowhere to set it down, empty, and the creature still held theirs cupped between their hands. “I’m going to kill it.” 

“It will kill you long before you stand a chance, stranger.” 

“You sure about that?” 

“I am Nien Neb,” said the creature, solemn, “and I am sure about many things. Most certainly that you will die at its grasp.” 

Din was starting to notice that everything about them was solemn. “I  _ will _ kill it,” he said. “There must be a way.” 

"You are the least qualified being to take down the creature," they said, and they sounded almost  _ amused _ when they added, "but you've already learned this, haven't you?" 

"How does it create the magnetic field?" said Din, but Nien shook their head. 

"It's been built by many eons of their passing through the stones," they said. "If it could be strong enough to lure down star ships from orbit, it would. Another millennia or so, it may very well be strong enough." 

"Not if we kill it first."

Nien's gaze was  _ pitying, _ and Din bristled under his armor. "There is no  _ we, _ and I doubt even your obstinacy will be enough to bring the beast to its end." 

"There must be a way." Din frowned, tilting his head slightly. "Are there more of them? On the planet?" 

Nien shook their head slowly. "If there were, they are long gone, or else devoured by the very one that lingers here." 

That was a relief, if a small one. Din could focus his rage — and wasn't that a strange feeling, such animosity — on a singular being, and be finished with it. 

If he could figure out a way to kill it. 

"It must have weaknesses. Vulnerabilities." 

“None we have been able to exploit, and many have tried.” 

“They weren’t me.” 

Nien regarded him for a moment, silent, and Din sighed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was uncalled for.” 

Nien inclined their head. “I understand your grief,” they said, and Din hadn’t said anything of it, hadn’t even  _ mentioned _ why he was hunting the beast, and they knew. 

Of course they knew. 

Din could only imagine what losses they had suffered, living so close to the creature as they did. 

And for that— 

“Why haven’t you— left?” said Din quietly, and Nien watched him, waiting. “If it is so perilous an existence here.” 

Nien shrugged, lifting both hands, open wide and empty. “Where would we go?” they said simply. 

_ This is their home, _ said the voice, quiet, and Din gave a slight nod. 

“If you are so determined to throw away your life, stranger,” said Nien, and they took back the cup, setting both empty vessels on the counter lining a short section of one wall, “then I will not stop you.” 

_ Don’t, _ whispered the voice.  _ Leave it be, partner. _

“I can’t,” said Din aloud, and caught himself at Nien’s questioning head tilt. “I have to do this.” 

_ You don’t, _ hissed the voice.  _ Even Nien says it is a fool’s errand. _

“Then you are a fool,” said Nien. “Your weapons will have no effect on it. Nor will you be able to do much more than be trapped in your own armor while it peels it from your body and feasts on your innards.” 

_ A most illuminating visual, partner. You so sure throwing your life down the flusher is the right thing to do? _

“Yes,” said Din, to the voice, and inclined his head to Nien. “My weapons won’t be of any use. Do you know what weapons  _ would?” _

The voice sighed, in perfect unison with Nien. “I may,” they said finally, “but they are rare, and we have no armor that would fit you, stranger. You would be unprotected.” 

“So be it,” said Din. 

_Don’t,_ whispered the voice. _Don’t do this. Please._ _It’s not worth it._

And, softer: 

_...I’m not worth it. _

Din took a deep breath, forcing his hands to relax from the fists they’d curled into. “Tell me where to find these weapons.” 

He’d do whatever he had to. 

Even if it meant stripping himself of what little Creed he had left.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tw for mentions of suicidal thoughts, graphic depictions of blood and gore, vomiting_

“There are others, then.” 

Nien blinked at him slowly, like a loth-cat. “Others like me? Yes. What few of us remain, we have learned how to avoid its hungers.” Their long ears drooped as they tipped their head. “It has learned, however, with our scarcity, to dust off its abilities to traverse to other planets, and find prey there, instead.” 

Like Tatooine. 

Like Cobb. 

Countless others that had fallen to the beast’s hunger. 

“Come,” said Nien, and gestured for Din to follow them, leading him deeper into the cavern, through winding tunnels that, while a little rough hewn, reminded him of the tunnels of his covert, once upon a time. 

The tunnel led out to a wider cavern, from which many other tunnels spread out from, and Din had a feeling should Nien abandon him there, he’d never find his way back to the surface. They moved to the center of the room, placing a hand on the low table there, and pulled a tassled string. 

Somewhere, a bell rang, trilling softly and echoing through the tunnels with no direction clear for its source. 

And from the tunnels, one after another, came small creatures just like Nien, with those large dark eyes and long downturned ears, wearing the same drably coloured clothing that helped them blend in with the rocks and shadows. 

“A stranger,” murmured one of them, and Din could see his armor reflected in their wide eyes. “Why are they here?” 

Nien turned their face up to Din. “Tell them, stranger,” they said. “Tell them why you have come to our planet.” 

“Who  _ are _ you?” came from the back of the huddled crowd. “Man of metal, you will find no peace here.” 

_You should leave,_ whispered the voice. _Look at them, partner. They know as well as you do, this quest of yours is pointless._ _They have seen the beast destroy their lives for generations. Trust them, if not me._

“Trust me,” said Din softly, and slowly lifted his helmet from his head. “I can put aside the armor, the weapons, as long as I have a chance to end this.” 

_ What are you doing. _

“Nien tells me there are weapons,” continued Din, ignoring the voice, “that won’t be caught by the beast’s magnetic field.” 

A few soft titters reached his ears, and he saw many of them exchange glances. 

“He may use them, if he wishes,” said Nien, voice level. A sigh rose from the crowd, and a few scattered back down the tunnels, gone in an instant. “If he also wishes to throw his life into the jaws of it, then we cannot prevent him from doing so.” They turned to look at him with dark eyes luminous in the lighting, and for a moment it almost seemed they flashed hazel. “This is the way, is it not?” 

“This is the Way,” whispered Din, startled. Were these creatures—? 

“Here they are, stranger,” said one of the creatures, appearing at his side, and he startled, not expecting the sudden increased proximity. One by one, the creatures who had left reappeared, to lay weapons at his feet in the dirt. 

Primitive weapons, to the ones who had trained him. To Din, these weapons — spears and knives and a single hatchet, each weapons’ sharp point made of some glinting stone black as night, the handles of each either shaped from sturdy wood or from carved bone. 

The longest was a single spear that would reach the top of his shoulder, if only just, and it seemed bulky in comparison to the other options, out of size for any of the creatures there to wield. 

He wondered what other species had lived on the planet, how many of them the beast had wiped out. 

“These will serve you,” said Nien. They did not say they would serve  _ well, _ and he could not blame them. “Take what you can carry, and no more. They will not be recovered, when you fall.” 

Din smiled at the  _ when, _ wondering what his smile looked like to them. 

Whether anyone would ever see him smile again. 

He didn’t care, really. 

There wasn’t much left to smile about. 

—

Din left his armor in Nien’s cavern home. 

Every piece of it, every weapon he still had. 

Even the darksaber, and how it forced a short laugh from him when Nien took it without question, so easily handed the weight of a people they knew nothing of. 

Din would like to see Bo-Katan try and win it from Nien, front row seats, with bang-corn in a bucket to share with Boba and Fennec while they all laughed. 

He had nothing but his flightsuit, his cape at his back, his boots and his belt, with every piece of durasteel stripped from it. And Cobb’s scarf, tucked around his neck. 

“When you do not return,” Nien had said, somber but not nearly as grim as the words they spoke, “I will sell your armor.” 

_ What are you doing, _ the voice had said, and Din hadn’t had an answer for that. 

“Seems fair,” was all he had said. 

_ It’s not worth this, _ said the voice. 

Din pretended he didn’t hear it. 

Wouldn’t be too much of a lie, since without his helmet, his ears were bombarded with all the ambient sounds of the environment — the wind whistling through cracks in the rock, the skittering sounds of misplaced pebbles as some small, unseen creatures crept here and there. 

Din wished he had his helmet. 

Wouldn’t be much good to him once he got back to the lair, unless he wanted his head yanked off his body at the neck, but—

He missed it. 

_ Din, _ said the voice, and he stopped, out in the open, the fair mist settling cooly on his face. Cobb’s scarf kept it from dripping down the back of his neck, at least, one more little moment of protection from the marshal beyond the grave. 

Just proof that the voice really was all in his head, to say his name so freely. 

There was no one left who knew his name to speak it. 

_ Din, _ said the voice again, and he kept walking.  _ Din, it isn’t worth this. Go back to Nien, put on your armor. Leave this place. _

“No,” he said, and his voice sounded weird to him, out of the helmet — soft and trembling, like it might break if he let it. “I’ve killed one dragon, what’s another?” 

_ You had your armor, your weapons. The explosives. _ A breath, cold and damp as the mist.  _ You had help. _

“Cobb is gone,” said Din, and his voice  _ did _ break, on that last word. “He gave his life to keep his people safe.  _ These _ people have no one.” 

_ So you think it is reasonable to give  _ your _ life for them?  _

“I have nothing left to give,” said Din simply. He’d reached the last incline before the crater, and he paused at the top, surveying the rocky surface below. He didn’t know how long it would take before the beast would leave again, looking for another meal, and he didn’t want to give it the chance to do so. 

Ever again. 

_ Then make a plan, _ said the voice.  _ Come back with others who can help you. _

“To send them to their deaths, as well?” 

The voice was quiet for a while, and Din was able to climb down into the crater in peace. 

Then— 

_ Do you want to die so badly, Din Djarin? _

“I don’t want to die,” said Din, but he didn’t really know anymore. Once the beast was dead — or he was — he had no more goals to fight for. 

No child to care for, no covert to provide for. 

He had nothing. 

_ Don’t do this, Din. Don’t die like this. _

“Like what?” said Din, keeping his voice low, sneaking as best he could toward the cavern entrance. Again. 

_ Like a fool. You can’t— _

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” growled Din, and the handle of the obsidian spear creaked under his gloved hand. Something glittered in the walls of the cave, and while the ringing in his ears was consistent, it wasn’t as loud or terrible as it had been from within his helmet. “You’re just a voice in my head. You’re not real.” 

_ Oh, Din, _ whispered the voice.  _ You are more than this. _

“I’m not,” said Din. His boots scuffed at the floor, no matter how softly he tried to step — something silty coated everything, even the walls. And something  _ smelled, _ salty and potent, wafting through the air stronger with every step he took deeper into the lair. “I’m not anyone important, I’m just  _ me. _ ” He turned a corner, and the tunnel widened, dropping abruptly, and he nearly slipped and fell. Pressed a hand to the wall for balance. “I’m no Manda’lor. No hero. I’m not even  _ Mandalorian _ anymore. I’m just me.” 

_ Din— _

“I don’t know who  _ me _ is,” whispered Din. Something stirred in the depths, a slithering, dry rasp of some massive body shifting against walls and floors all at once. “Without my Creed— I’m nothing. No one. I’ve never— I haven’t been anyone else for longer than I can remember.” 

_ Not true. _

“I was a child,” hissed Din. He pressed himself behind a massive stalagmite, rubbed shining on the side closest to the tunnel itself and still rough and layered between it and the wall. “What did I know of the self?” 

Just in time, too — the beast had risen, indeed, and it crawled past him at a lethargic pace, hauling along its massive, sinuous body on bent legs, long claws dragging on the tunnel floor with an awful scraping noise that made Din wish, once again, for his helmet, if only to block out the horrible sounds. 

Hearing everything,  _ seeing _ everything, feeling the mist drying on his face — it was all too much. 

_ Leave now, _ said the voice,  _ before it finds you. You can still make it to the entrance, without being seen. _

Din set his jaw, and stepped out of his hiding place, weapons in hand. Heard the soft shuffle of his boots on the silty floor, but the beast didn’t make any sign it had heard him, just continued along the tunnel. 

_ Get out of here, Din. _

Din followed the beast. 

He stuck close to the walls, following it past the entrance — ignoring the voice’s insistent pleas for him  _ to leave, to just go  _ — and down another tunnel, noting the various other tunnels breaking off at intervals as they passed. 

How deep underground they were, he didn’t know, just that the air felt heavy and thick, and the glow in the walls got brighter the further they went. 

_ Turn around, Din. Run... _

“No,” he hissed between gritted teeth, as the creature changed direction and went down yet another tunnel. “Shut up.” 

_ Please, _ whispered the voice.  _ Please don’t do this... I can’t... watch you die... _

“Shut  _ up,” _ growled Din, and the beast slithered out into a wider cavern, stretching up onto its long limbs to its full height, the spiky spines on its back brushing the tips of the stalactites there. 

And it turned, twisting its long body up and up and  _ up, _ and it looked at him, with a dozen unblinking eyes, gleaming under the glow of whatever algae was brightening the cavern. 

“Fuck,” said Din, not caring that his voice echoed around him, and dove to the side, just missed by the beast surging forward, rolling behind a thick stalagmite as the beast slammed into the curved cavern wall and launched itself off of its impact point, sailing over his head and giving him a fine view of the well-plated armor of its belly, and out of sight. 

Din scrambled to his feet, keeping in a low crouch. The beast growled, a rattling noise deep in its throat which bulged as it made the noise, the plated of chitin sliding seamlessly. Those eyes blinked, one after another, row by row along its long head, and Din couldn’t see a single kriffing weakness in its armored body. 

Maybe Nien and their people had been right. 

Maybe the voice had been right. 

Maybe this was a fool’s errand. 

“Too late to quit now,” he muttered, looking around the cavern. It was worn smooth nearly all the way to the ceiling, where the glow was dimmer and the stalactites longest. The stalagmites near the middle were either massive and worm smooth — by the creature crawling up and over them, he realised, as he watched it do just that, huge head lifted as it sniffed at the air like a massiff — or broken, crumbling remnants of their either fallen or crushed stony brethren. 

_ Wait til it… looks away, _ whispered the voice.  _ Then… run… _

“Won’t,” said Din. Rolled to avoid the beast’s head whipping around, ducking behind another stalagmite. When the beast spun again, he saw the plates along its left side shift. 

Saw the seam between two stretch wider than a finger, maybe two. 

A weak spot. 

“There we go,” he breathed, and surveyed the cavern, keeping half his attention on the beast as it crawled over the stalagmites, sniffing around the bases. Now he just needed a way to  _ get _ to the weak spot. 

Since it was far enough up the kriffing thing’s side to be twice his height and over. 

Well. 

Just because it was big didn’t mean it couldn’t be taken down. 

Din stuck the obsidian knife into his belt, gripping the spear in one hand, and wove his way through the stalagmites, keeping out of sight of the beast as it rumbled a growl. Its head turned in his direction, and he cursed under his breath, hauling himself up the rounded layers of the calcium deposits as fast as he could. 

“Come on, you fucker,” he muttered, getting his feet under him, and as soon as the beast swung close enough, he propelled himself up by the butt of the obsidian spear toward it. 

For a stomach-dropping moment, he was midair, and falling, and then Din reached out with his free hand and grabbed hold of one of the long spines on the beast’s back, slamming into its side — the armor was just as hard to crash into as it had looked, he discovered with a groan. The beast spun, and he clung to it with dogged desperation, clutching the spear close to his body so it wouldn’t be knocked from his hand. 

He could see the plates of its side shifting under him, the little gap he’d spotted peeking into view and disappearing with every frenzied step the beast took. He’d need to time it just right, and— 

_ Yes, _ the beast was turning, uncoiling its massive body to avoid bodyslamming into one of the bigger stalagmites, and as it turned, the gap opened wide — relatively speaking, as it was still thinner than half his hand. 

But it was enough, he hoped. 

Din lifted the spear, and drove it downward. 

The beast swerved, and the spear clattered off of the armor plates, jolted from Din’s hand to fly out of sight, and his grip on the beast’s spines wavered as his entire weight was thrown onto his arm. 

_ “Fuck,” _ he gasped, scrabbling to yank the knife from his belt, and just in time, too, as the beast spun again and he lost his grip entirely. He flailed, trying to grab onto  _ anything _ as he slid down the beast’s side, and he flung out his hand holding the knife. 

It caught, his fall abruptly halted, and something thick and wet splattered down his arm and into his hair. 

Din shook his head, looked up. 

_ Incredible, _ whispered the voice. 

The knife had dug into the gap in the beast’s armor. 

The beast screamed, thrashing its entire body, and Din let go of the knife, jumping away and hitting the ground in a roll that did little more than make his shoulder protest his very existence, and he scrambled to his feet, staggering behind the closest stalagmite and feeling it shudder at his back as the beast’s tale whipped against it as it surged away. 

“Not bad, huh?” he whispered, but the voice had no additional comments, it seemed. Din risked a peek beyond the stalagmite, and saw the beast snarling and rubbing up against the wall of the cavern, leaving smears of the same black, gooey stuff that dotted his sleeves. 

Its blood. 

And there, beyond the largest splash of dark blood on the ground, Din could see the glint of the spear. Still intact, by some miracle. 

The beast was still occupied by its new wound — he wondered how long it had been since the creature had experienced any sort of pain like that — and Din skidded across the silty floor to snatch up the spear again, ducking behind another stalagmite. 

Knife gone, shoulder aching, and breath catching in his throat, Din considered his options. Spearing it through the roof of its mouth would be no use — it hadn’t opened its jaws when it had lunged at him, probably intending to crush him with its heavy skull rather than risk breaking a tooth on the stone if it missed. 

If he was going to kill this thing, it would have to be through an eye. 

But which one? 

It had twelve, of varying sizes, and if he didn’t aim right, the spear would shatter just as easily as the knife had. 

He only had one shot at this. 

_ Din, _ whispered the voice, and it was weaker now, fading. Whatever words followed, they were too faint for him to hear under the beast’s angry roar. 

He didn’t have time to listen to them, anyway. The beast was shaking its head, a great shudder rolling through its massive body, finding its balance again. Din glanced around, noting which stalagmites were closest, which were the right height. 

Glimpsed something in the thin fragments of stone on the floor. 

The bone handle of the knife, presumably having been snapped from its blade between the armor plates of the beast. 

Perfect. 

Din broke cover from behind the stalagmite and dashed for another, taller one, closer to the wall, bending down to snatch up the bone handle as he passed it, boots skidding on the silt. The beast turned, eyes flickering as it blinked at him, growling, and Din threw the bone handle just before he slid behind the stalagmite. 

By the solid  _ thwack _ and the resulting snarl, he figured he’d at least annoyed the thing. 

Din climbed. 

He reached the top of the stalagmite, a flat surface from the tip having been snapped off by the beast’s passing, dropping into a crouch. 

“Come and get me, asshole,” he said, his voice echoing in the cavern, and the beast roared, opening its mouth wide to reveal far too many teeth lining its throat, thick globules of spit dripping down the fangs. 

It roared, spittle flying, and launched itself at him. 

Perfect. 

Din shifted his feet, leaning his weight to jump for its side again, like last time, and he  _ saw _ the beast calculate this, saw it press off from another stalagmite — that crunched under its claws — and shift direction, snapping its jaws shut as it prepared to crush him into a paste. 

Just like he’d wanted it to. 

He shifted his weight onto his toes and  _ jumped _ at the last second, planting one foot between the beast’s foremost eyes and propelling himself up its long face with the next step as its lower jaw and neck slammed into the stalagmite. 

It screeched, eyes rolling furiously, and Din lifted the spear. 

Only had one shot. 

Wouldn’t have another chance after this. 

_ “Naas kar'galan, ne trikar, ne kar'aray,” _ he said, and drove the spear down into one of the largest eyes, three rows back from the tip of its nose. 

The beast  _ screamed, _ whipping its head to the side, and Din only just managed to grab hold of one of the head spines to keep from being flung off like he was attempting to ride a blurrrgh all over again. 

Kuiil would laugh if he could see Din now. Laugh, and probably tell him he was being a fool, just as everyone else had. 

Din clung to the spine, and tightened his grip on the spear’s handle, forcing it deeper into the beast’s skull. His ears were ringing from the echoing reverberations of the beast’s screams, but he didn’t let up the pressure on the spear, feeling it sink a few more inches down. 

The next toss of the beast’s head dislodge his tenuous grip on both spine and spear, and Din sailed through the air like a ragdoll, knocked off course by one of the beast’s long-clawed limbs, only managing to twist around and land in a hard roll at the last moment. His ribs creaked as his roll was abruptly stopped by a stalagmite, and he gasped, all the air knocked from his lungs. 

His arm stung, and when he looked down, there was dark blood spreading stickily from under his arm, two long tears in the sleeve of his flightsuit. 

Huh. 

The beast screamed again, tossing its head like an irritated orbak, rubbing itself against the wall in an effort to dislodge the spear from its eye. Din tried to push himself up, breathless, and heard a sickening  _ crack _ as the beast slammed its head into the wall again. 

Something skittered down and away — part of the spear handle, he realised absently, watching it bump into a stalagmite and stop, and the beast slammed its head into the wall, over and over, wailing in agony. 

And then it stopped with a low, hissing groan, staggering unevenly on suddenly trembling limbs, head drooping, taking an unsteady step forward, toward where Din was still sprawled on the ground. It opened its massive jaws, a horrible, awful rattle rising from its throat, and toppled forward with a crunching sound as it collapsed onto its own tangled limbs. 

Din held his breath for a long moment, ears straining for any hint of breath, any rustle of clawed limbs regaining momentum. 

Nothing. 

“Fuck,” whispered Din, and a laugh escaped him, sounding a bit hysterical to his ears, and he laughed again. 

He  _ definitely _ wouldn’t be returning either the knife or the spear to Nien’s people, after all. 

“See that?” he said, voice breathy from laughter. “Not dead after all.” 

The voice didn’t answer, and Din stayed where he was, giggling between heavy breaths, until it no longer felt like his lungs were going to burst. The beast stayed inert, and Din pushed himself gingerly up, cataloging his hurts. The ribs ached, but none seemed broken, miraculously, and while he’d have multitudes of bruises darkening his skin by morning, the worst of it seemed to be the claw marks on his upper arm. 

Din slipped the scarf from his neck and folded it, tying it firmly around the wound. “Sorry, Cobb,” he muttered, and laboriously hauled himself up to his feet. “Didn’t mean to ruin your scarf so soon.” 

Might stain, but if he got it cleaned out, maybe it wouldn’t be too noticeable against the red fabric. 

Din didn’t want to give it up. 

He was shaking, he realised, either from the adrenaline rush or blood loss, and Din tugged his cape close around his shoulders, eyeing the various tunnels branching out from the cavern. The fight with the beast had gotten him all turned around, and he didn’t know which tunnel led back to the surface. 

Didn’t have his helmet to track his own footsteps back through the tunnels, and the walls and floor were worn so smooth by probable  _ centuries _ of the beast’s passing that there was a low chance he’d find any clues useable enough to lead him out. 

“Any ideas?” he said aloud, glancing at the beast’s body — it didn’t stir, and the voice was still silent. Din sighed, and tugged his cloak tighter. 

Wandering aimlessly it was, then. 

Din chose a tunnel that seemed familiar, and quickly found himself lost. He hadn’t thought the beast’s path to the large cavern had been so difficult to follow, back when he’d trailed it there, but again and again he found himself back in the same cavern, having backtracked by accident or simply come out on the other side of the cavern itself. 

He sighed, the sound echoing softly. The soft dripping from the ceiling was as loud as his breathing, and he stared blankly at the beast’s corpse for a long while before shaking his head to clear it and marching over. 

Found the wounded eye, oozing blood and whatever else, surrounded by eleven other eyes frozen open in death, already a pearly and cloudy haze spreading over them. Stuck a gloved finger in, wriggling it around, until he could lift it free with a good slick of blood on the leather, darkening the usually brighter fingertips. 

Din walked to the closest tunnel, and smeared his bloody hand at the entrance, marking a crude arrow toward the cavern, and the body there. 

That way if he came back again, at least he’d know which one he’d started in. 

Din marked four more tunnels, gouging the hole in the beast’s eye deeper each time to reach the cooling blood. His glove was stiff with the dried excess, and he rubbed his fingers together absently, a fine dust of rusty-red flakes drifting to the floor in his wake. 

He tried talking a few times, listening back to the echos in hopes it might illuminate the length of the tunnels, perhaps, or summon the voice, just to hear something other than the endless dripping and silence, but the voice stayed silent, and Din was still alone. 

Tunnel number seven was longer than the rest, curving this way and that, and Din was careful not to turn down any of the adjoining tunnels, figuring if this main one didn’t lead out, he could check the others in turn. 

Provided he didn’t die of blood loss, exhaustion, or thirst first. It might be a toss-up, for all he knew. 

Lost in a goddamn cave underground. 

Din would give his last credits to be roasting under the suns of Tatooine just about then, even if Peli laughed at him for sitting in the sun like a loth-cat. 

Would give anything to sit there with Cobb, if only once. 

His chest ached, and Din pretended it was just his battered ribs. 

He wondered if there were suns at the planet where the Jedi had taken Grogu, if there were frogs for him to chase and eat. If he was happy. 

He hoped he was happy— 

Din tripped, boot catching on an uneven surface, and he flung out his arms to catch himself, cursing when he landed hard on one elbow. He pushed himself up, and something  _ gave _ under his hand, a soft  _ squishing _ sound rising to his ears. 

He lifted his hand, and something  _ oozed _ down from it, dripping back down to the floor thicker than the beast’s blood had. It glowed, briefly, then faded, and when Din looked down, he saw that the source of it was a tendril of something glowing, something that branched out, deeper into the tunnel, around the curve and out of sight. 

“What’s this?” he murmured. He received no answer. Wiping his gloved hand on his pants didn’t do much to get rid of the slime. He didn’t remember seeing it on his way in, but... “Should I follow it?” 

The voice was silent. Din shrugged. 

Wasn’t like he had anything better to do, since he was already so kriffing lost. 

The membranous lines led him deeper into the tunnels, breaking off from the main tunnel down another, and Din followed it, figuring it would still be there to lead him back later. The lines got thicker, glowing brighter, a pulsing, odd glow that made Din blink hard and glance away, trailing one hand against the wall more for balance than anything. 

The glow grew brighter ahead, and Din sped up his steps, hopeful that he might have stumbled upon an entrance. He stepped over a particularly thick branch of the line, turning around a sharp corner, and— 

—the room opened up into a wide cavern, lower ceilings than the one Din had fought the beast in, not a single stalactite remaining, and a bright, pale green glow rising from thick lines that tangled across the floor in overlapping rows, bulging in places with dark centers, all the way to the brightest section at the very middle, which sat lower than the rest, gleaming bright enough that Din had to shield his eyes with one hand. 

The bulges, he discovered — as he picked his way across the floor, carefully stepping over the lines in an attempt not to disturb the membrane and spill the gooey insides — were glowing, pulsing membrane sacs. Some were darker than the others, the glow faded if not gone entirely, their edges raggedly torn and obviously emptied of whatever they’d housed. 

And what they’d housed— 

Din rubbed his face into his sleeve, squinting through the harsh glow from the middle of the room and leaning close to inspect one of the brighter sacs. Surely it couldn’t be— 

Surely the pattern he was seeing, of the broken, empty sacs versus the glowing, full ones, surely it wasn’t— 

Surely it wasn’t a  _ fucking feeding pattern— _

Din dropped to a crouch, digging his gloved fingers into the glowing membrane, grimacing as the thick goo oozed out swiftly over his arms and splashed down onto his boots, the walls of the sac sagging as its internal support drained out. 

And the dark shape huddled at its core, still and slick with the fluids still oozing around Din’s boots, was the body of a creature just like Nien. 

“Fuck,” whispered Din, and scooped away more of the slime, carefully lifting the small body from the sac. 

They were warm. 

Not very, but not  _ cold _ as he’d expected, and Din hurriedly set them down again on the floor, ripping off a glove and pressing his bare fingers to the creature’s throat. 

A pulse. 

Thready and thin, but a pulse. 

Only—

—they weren’t breathing. 

The slime. Of course. 

“Fuck,” said Din again, louder, and gently tilted the creature’s head to the side. Liquid oozed from their nose immediately, followed by more from their mouth when he gently pinched their jaw open. 

Still not breathing. 

_ “Fuck,” _ said Din again, louder, and eased the creature’s head upright again, tipping the head up with two fingers under the chin, steadying it with a hand to their forehead. 

His glove left smears of goo and blood on their fur, but he couldn’t care about that now. 

“Come on,” he whispered. He spread a hand over their chest, the fluid lingering there covering his fingers in moments as he gently pushed down. “Come on,  _ come on.” _ He pressed again, harder, in quick succession, and—

—the creature’s body jerked, fluid spilling from their open mouth as they choked, and Din rolled them onto their side, wincing at the  _ amount _ of slime they were expelling. Too much than what surely could fit in one stomach, or lungs, but it came up, the glow fading as it dispersed across the floor and soaked into the other lines of membrane, and the creature wheezed in a low breath, then another. 

Breathing, but still unconscious. 

But breathing. 

“Fuck,” whispered Din, sitting back on his haunches. They were  _ alive, _ somehow, even after however long they had been kept in that goo. Maybe it had some similar qualities to bacta, but he wasn’t about to smear some on his own wounds to see if it would help. 

He looked out over the other sacs, the room seemingly endless in that moment. If each glowing sac held a body, then… so many creatures, each of them trapped in stasis like this one. So many… 

But maybe—

Din looked down at the unconscious creature, and another hysterical laugh bubbled up in his chest. 

_ Wishes are powerful things, partner. _

Din didn’t need the voice in his head to tell him that, not that it did. He  _ knew _ that already, and he had his wish staunchly held in his heart, beating sharp and bright in his chest like it was making to burst right out. 

If there were others— 

If there was even the slightest chance that maybe— 

Din scrambled to his feet, shedding his other glove and leaving both by the creature’s supine form, his legs carrying him to the next sac. The body inside was as small as the one he’d just clawed open, and he wondered if they, too, would still breathe, if he freed them. 

He was going to find out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando’a translation: Naas kar'galan, ne trikar, ne kar'aray! - No mercy, no regret, no remorse (motto of Mandalorian mercenary groups)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tw for mentions of vomiting, blood, and gore_

Twenty-one bodies — breathing,  _ living _ bodies — lay sleeping, or unconscious, on the floor of the cavern, and Din had not pried open even a small fraction of the sacs remaining. There were many creatures like Nien, several humanoids, even a Twi’lek. All inert, unresponsive to whatever he called at them. 

Six bodies lay still and lifeless, and Din couldn’t look at their small forms, see his failure written there. There had been no heartbeats in their bodies when he lifted them clear, and no amount of resuscitation could revive them. 

And still so many left to go. 

The next was larger, another humanoid, he guessed, one of those closest to the end of empty sacs — likely to be eaten soon, if his theory was correct. Din’s hands were cold, his joints aching, but he dug his short nails into the membrane, and tugged. 

Thick fluid oozed out, same as all the others, and underneath it emerged silver hair. 

A neatly trimmed beard, slicked down from the slime. 

A face in deceiving, restful repose, that he’d thought never to see again. 

“Cobb Vanth,” he breathed, and his vision blurred, likely from the long exposure to the glowing lines. He blinked to clear it, and something splashed down onto Cobb’s face, sliding over the fluid still there. 

Din was crying. 

Kriffing hell, why the fuck was he  _ crying. _

Din wiped his eyes on his sleeve, blinking hard, inhaling deeply and ignoring the slight sniffle that came with it. “Pull yourself together,” he muttered, and wiped his eyes again. 

Why couldn’t he stop  _ crying? _

Din hauled Cobb out of the torn membrane, easing him onto the floor. His hand shook as he checked for a pulse, and— 

_ Yes. _ A faint one, but it was there. 

Cobb was alive. 

Cobb Vanth was  _ alive, _ dank farrik. 

But he wouldn’t be for long, if Din couldn’t get the fluid from his lungs, get him breathing again. Din wiped his eyes, took another steadying breath. 

“Come on, you sonnuvabitch,” he muttered, tilting Cobb’s head to clear his airway. “You don’t get to go out like this. Not like this.” 

Compressions, careful of the press of ribs close to the skin. Holding his own breath until Cobb’s body convulsed, and the marshal choked and coughed up more thick fluid, the ribs under Din’s hands expanding as he finally took a breath. Din gently rolled him onto his side, keeping his hands there to steady him as he coughed some more. 

Din took a breath of his own, finally. “Cobb?” he whispered. “Can you hear me?” 

The marshal gave no answer, but he still breathed, chest rising and falling steadily under Din’s hand. Unconscious, just like the rest of them. 

And  _ alive. _

Din sank down, landing on his ass on the hard floor, and ran a slime-slick hand through his hair, not caring that it would probably cake in and dry stiff. He was so  _ tired. _

A pale imitation of a laugh escaped him, loud as the sound bounced around the room for a moment and was gone. All that was left was the loud beating of his own heart, and the soft breaths of the twenty-two sleepers. 

He had no way to carry them out of the beast’s lair, at least not all at once. 

And he still needed to  _ find _ the way out, somehow. 

Din took a deep breath, considered the remaining unopened sacs. Most still glowed vividly, and likely would remain as they were, for at least however long Din took to find an exit to that place. 

He would. 

He  _ had _ to. 

First things first. Find a way to get  _ back _ to this cavern, to recover the rest of the survivors. Maybe if Nien’s people would help, they could carry all of them with some sort of speed, see if they could be helped. 

He had to believe they could be helped. 

One of the creatures he had removed from their sac had a canteen tied to their waist, and Din carefully untied the strings holding it there, unscrewing the loose cap and letting the slime that had slipped inside ooze out. Screwed the cap back on, tucked it under his arm. Put his gloves back on, what little good it did for how sticky his fingers already were. 

Went back to the marshal. 

Din unfastened his cape from his shoulders and wrapped it around Cobb, carefully tucking it under him as he lifted the marshal, up to a crouch and then all the way upright, leaning back a bit to counteract the weight in his arms. Cobb was skinny as a rail, but he was still slightly taller than Din, and his long legs nearly tipped Din over onto the floor himself until he got a good grip on him. 

His arm burned, and Din hefted Cobb up more securely in his grip. 

At least there was only one entrance to this cavern. 

Din backtracked along the lines of glowing membrane, wincing when his heavy steps crushed some of the tendrils into fading, ooze sticking to his boots and wetly tugging at the floor with every step until it dissipated enough. 

Cobb slept on, and Din kept his eyes on the thinning trail of lines on the floor, not on the marshal’s pale face, until the lines faded into nothing and he was faced with the empty tunnel once more. 

At least he knew where this one led — back to the giant cavern, where the beast’s body still lay. Din gently lowered Cobb to the floor, smoothing back the silver hair that had slipped down over closed eyes, and went to the carcass. 

No scavengers had ventured this far into the lair to feast on its flesh, already beginning to stink, and Din picked his way around the tangled limbs, climbing on some and hanging on to what spines he could reach until he found what he was looking for — the gap in the armor plates where he had wedged the knife. He couldn’t see the blade, but there was blood, plenty of it, and more spilled forth when he jammed his gloved fingers into the wound. 

Held the canteen up underneath, twisting his fingers into the beast’s flesh until the dark blood spilled over the lip of the canteen, and pulled his hand free. Screwed the cap on almost all the way, tipped it to the side until a few drops spilled out. 

Nodded to himself, and went back to pick up Cobb again — this time, he hauled the marshal’s arm over his shoulders and hefted him up, tugging on that arm until Cobb’s torso was comfortably over Din’s shoulders and he could hold him in place by the arm and leg in a soldier’s carry. Cobb’s head lolled against Din’s arm, ooze dripping down the fabric from his wet hair. 

And the canteen in his hand, arm hooked around Cobb’s leg by the wrist, held at an angle, and when Din turned himself awkwardly to look back down the tunnel he’d picked, there was a steady trail of dark droplets splattered in his wake. 

A perfect trail to follow back, should he need it. 

And somehow— 

_ —somehow— _

—the tunnel led out into fresh air, spilling him and his cargo into a misty dusk. The wet taste of the air was strange, but Din couldn’t bring himself to care, heaving in deep breaths as he rested for just a moment at the entrance. Dropped the canteen, nearly empty, and patted Cobb’s leg. 

“Nearly there, partner,” he said, and he received no answer. 

He took another slow breath, and kept walking. 

Scaling the wall of the crater was a challenge, his Cobb a dead weight on his back — one he checked the pulse and breathing of, every time he stopped to rest, even if just for a moment. Just to reassure himself that the marshal was still alive. 

Din almost walked right past the entrance to Nien’s home in a daze of putting one foot in front of the other, in the moonlight that only just illuminated the craggy landscape enough for him not to break an ankle, and he backtracked to the entrance, wedging himself and Cobb through the narrow passage to the main open room. 

Nien was there, kneeling by a low table with another creature, and both stared at him with wide dark eyes in startled silence. 

“You’re alive,” said Nien drily, but there was also something  _ pleased _ about the surprise in their voice. “I have to say I am glad to be proven wrong.” 

“He’s alive,” said Din, and his voice came out a croak. Cleared his throat, tried again. “My— friend. He’s. He’s alive.” 

And his knees buckled, only just leaning forward to catch himself on his good arm as he landed on his knees to not drop Cobb. 

His hand was shaking. His whole  _ arm _ was shaking. 

Maybe all of him was. 

“Stranger,” said Nien, and suddenly there were many small hands helping to lift Cobb from Din’s back, laying the marshal down on the floor, the cape sliding loose. He looked worse in the bright lights of Nien’s home, after the strange lighting in the beast’s lair and the moonlight outside. 

The beast. 

“It’s dead,” said Din, and Nien looked at him, blinking slowly. “The beast. It’s dead.” He took a breath. “I killed it.” 

“Impossible,” whispered their companion, and Nien shook their head slowly. “It is dead?” 

“It’s dead,” repeated Din, and he listened for Cobb’s voice in his head, the Cobb-but-not-Cobb, but the voice was still silent. 

Maybe it had died with the beast, in the lair. 

Maybe Din had finally gone round the bend. 

“Come,” said Nien, but when Din lifted his head they were gesturing to their companion, moving to the heavy drapes that covered one wall and tugging them wide, scattering a heavy layer of dust into the air. Both sneezed, and Din’s nose tickled, and they uncovered a long chain that ran up into a hole in the ceiling, out of sight. 

They pulled on the chain, both of their tiny bodies curving with the effort, and Din started to push himself up, meaning to offer them a hand if it was needed— 

—only to slump back to his knees as a bell pealed, loud and mournful, somewhere high above them. The two creatures pulled on the chain again, and the bell tolled again, sending a shiver down Din’s spine. 

He’d been wrong, it wasn’t  _ mournful. _

It was  _ joyous. _

Other creatures spilled into the room, chattering questioningly, and Din blinked hard against blurring vision, finding fresh tears spilling to the floor. He didn’t bother to wipe them away — there wasn’t much of his flightsuit that wasn’t covered in muck of some kind, and it didn’t matter, anyway. Most of the creatures were crying, too, as Nien told them the news. 

Some of them came up to him, whispering thanks as they hugged him, uncaring of the blood and grime on his clothes. Some of them, led by Nien, moved to Cobb, and Din hauled himself up to join them. 

“He wouldn’t wake,” he said, as one of the creatures gently turned Cobb’s head, another prodding at the tear in the sleeve of his shirt that Din had only just noticed. “The others wouldn’t, either.” 

Dozens of dark eyes stared up at him in unison, the chatter stopping dead. 

“Others?” whispered Nien. 

“Many,” said Din. “Many others. Kept in some sort of… stasis. Like he was. I couldn’t carry any others, but I— left a trail. To get back.” 

“Maker above,” breathed one of the creatures. “Others…? Like you? And him?” 

“Some,” said Din. “But many. Many more. Like you.” He rested a hand on Cobb’s chest absently, checking for the now-familiar rise and fall as he breathed. “I can— take you there. If you’re willing. With enough of us, we could bring them all home.” He looked down at Cobb, back up, finding Nien’s face in the sea of hopeful expressions. “Please. Can someone— does anyone know. How to wake him. All of them.” 

“We will find a way,” said Nien, placing their hands over Din’s, and he shuddered at how warm they were, in comparison to Cobb, to  _ him. _ He hadn’t realised how chilled he was until they touched him. “We will guard him for you, while you show us where our people are.” 

—

One of the creatures stopped to pick up the abandoned canteen, sticky with blood of the beast, and turned hopeful eyes and a wobbling lip to Din. He didn’t know whether to nod, or try a smile, so he just took a breath and said, “They’re alive.” 

Tears welled up in their eyes, and they quietly tied the canteen to their belt before rejoining the small army of creatures following Din’s lead into the lair. It was easier to retrace his steps through the tunnels with the low voices of them conversing behind him, with the warm yellow glow from their lanterns brightening their passage. 

The bloody trail he’d left was glittering under the lantern light. 

The gasps of the creatures echoed loudly in the large cavern when they stepped through and saw the body of the beast, the smell of it worse than when Din had left it. 

He wished he’d thought to ask Nien where they’d stashed his armor before they left, so at least he could have his helmet, but then considered the very real consequences of having to clean the gunk from his helmet lining as well as his hair, and put the thought away. 

He didn’t need the helmet to track the beast now, or to retrace his steps — the slime had left plenty of a trail where the blood had not, and once they reached the glowing lines, the whispers behind him faded to a somber silence as they picked their way down the tunnel. 

“Watch your step,” he warned as they entered the smaller cavern, and many of them gasped anew, the lantern light casting a fresh yellow gleam over the pale green glow of the membranes. “Over there— that’s where I left off.” He took a shuddering breath. “There are some— they. Weren’t. When I brought them out.” 

And he showed them, each of them, how to pry open the sacs and let the fluid spill out, how to drain enough to lift the creatures from within, helping with some of the humanoids and another Twi’lek who were too large for them to lift on their own. 

Showed them how to tip heads gently to clear airways, to give compressions to those that needed it to clear their lungs, to making sure they didn’t choke on their own vomit. Helped construct stretchers from the materials they had brought, from spines of the beast that some of them had hacked free with obsidian knives. 

Nien cast him a knowing look when they found the bone handle of the knife and nothing else, and Din looked away, went back to helping a creature who had introduced themself as Marn lift their unconscious friend over their shoulders, for lack of empty stretchers. 

There were still so many sleepers to uncover, and still so many darkened sacs that Din knew now held lifeless forms, and he was so tired. 

But he kept walking. 

Kept carrying limp bodies, until every single creature that had been in the beast’s lair who still had breath in their lungs was laid out in the makeshift infirmary Nien’s people had set up in the wider cavern in their warren where they had given Din the weapons. 

On the last trip back, there were more hands than were needed to carry the rescued, and Din leaned against the entrance to the lair for a moment. 

Glanced over, saw the beskar spear, still stuck to the stones, shining in the lantern light and the pale dawn creeping over the horizon. 

Considered leaving it there, for a moment. 

Discarded the thought in the next, and wedged his fingers under the staff of it, prying it up enough to get a grip on it, and wedged  _ himself _ between it and the wall, trying to keep as much of his torso blocking it, and walked away from the wall in stiff steps until it no longer pressed hard enough against his ribs that it felt like it might break what had already cracked. 

And he followed the creatures back to their home, checking that each of them were inside the dwelling before entering himself.

Only then did Din lean the spear against the wall and slide down with his back to the stone til he was seated, legs sprawled behind him, letting his head fall back against the wall for a long moment before turning it to look to the two pallets he’d sat next to, lined up to accommodate the length of the familiar form stretched there. 

Someone had removed Cobb’s sodden clothes and wrapped him in blankets, for lack of any garments large enough to fit him, and had even washed the slime from his hair, and presumably the rest of him. 

He would’ve looked peaceful, like he was merely sleeping, if it weren’t for the tremors running through his slender frame, breath coming in heavy pants on occasion before easing. Nien passed by, carrying bundles of garments or bandages, Din wasn’t certain, and he waved them down. 

“What’s wrong with him?” he said, and Nien gave a slight shake of their head. “Why won’t he wake?” 

“He will keep,” said Nien, and there was sympathy in their voice as they reached out as if to pat his arm, then paused, nose wrinkling. “You, however, will not. Marn?” 

Din hadn’t even seen the smaller creature approach, but Marn was at Nien’s elbow in an instant. 

“Take him to the baths, please, and find some towels he may use. The sonic won’t fit him, I’m afraid.” 

“Baths?” said Din, and Marn huffed a laugh. 

“What Nien is too polite to say,” they said, “is that you  _ reek, _ stranger.” 

Din couldn’t smell himself anymore, but he figured they were right. Glanced once more down at the sleeping marshal, who hadn’t stirred. “Lead the way.” 

The ‘baths’ were, in fact, a series of pools, stepping down with small waterfalls into each other, fresh hot water rising from somewhere deep below them by way of hot springs. Several of the creatures were there, in higher pools, but Marn led Din down the slippery stairs through the steam to a pool set to the side, not connected to the other pools. 

“This will give you some privacy,” they said, gesturing to the pool. Sure enough, when Din looked back the way they had come, he could no longer make out more than vague forms through the clouds of steam. “If you would be so kind as to rinse your clothes as best you can, and leave them at the edge, here, I can have them laundered and dried in our sonics for you.” Marn offered a hesitant smile. “We simply have no clothes big enough to lend you, stranger.” 

Din had some spare flightsuits on the ship, thinner ones in need of patching that he hadn’t yet mended, but he had no burning desire to trek all the way back to the ship and then track his grimy self in there if he didn’t have to. 

And—

—he didn’t want to leave Cobb that long, not until he knew for sure the marshal would be alright. 

“I would appreciate it,” he said quietly, and Marn dipped their head to him and scampered back the way they had come, somehow with a great deal of energy even after multiple trips to the beast’s lair and back. 

Din had no such energy, barely able to remove his boots without toppling over, and he wondered, briefly, if he would be swiftly claimed by sleep the moment he sat down in the pool. 

He was not — startled a mite more awake by the sting of his arm when it was submerged as he eased himself down to sit in the pool, his back to one edge for balance and the water lapping up to his armpits. Din bit his lip, watching the water swirl dark with dried blood and mucous, and carefully unwound Cobb’s scarf from his arm. 

The wounds had reopened, the claw marks raised and red, and Din slowly lowered his shoulder into the water, letting it soak for several minutes until he could dab the crusted blood away with a corner of the scarf. Peel the torn fabric of his sleeve away from his arm enough to slide out of his flightsuit entirely, shuddering at the hot water enveloping his naked body and the smooth stone under his ass. 

His hands were shaking as he wrung the flightsuit out in the water, over and over again until clouds of muck didn’t rise from the motions, and wrung it out again, over the water, tossing the damp garments onto the bank of the pool. 

Then he wrung out Cobb’s scarf, as well, fingering the dark stain of his own blood, and tossed it onto the pile as well. 

“I’ll take these,” said Marn, and Din startled, catching himself on his arms when he fell back, water splashing up to his chin. “It’s alright, stranger, I’ll bring them back dry. With a towel or two, as well.” Their brow furrowed, eyeing his abandoned boots. “Might want to wash those too, stranger.” And they carted off his clothes, leaving him naked, in a pool, alone. 

Din shuddered, running a hand through his hair, and grimaced when he found the stiff, dried remnants of the slime there. Took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Gripped the edge of the pool in one hand, the stone warm under his hand. 

Slid himself under the water. 

The water roiled, in constant motion from the springs filling it, draining away. 

It was  _ quieter, _ though, than above the surface. 

Nothing but Din, and the water, and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding steadily in his ears. 

No voice in his head but his own. 

Din scrubbed at his hair with his free hand, running his fingers through the tangles until they ran freely, and he couldn’t feel any more stiff chunks. Stayed under for a moment more, then pushed himself up, sucking in a huge gulp of air, head swimming. 

“Here,” said Marn, and Din cursed under his breath, wet hair flinging into his face when he twisted around. The creature waved a hand at him — they were holding a small jar, which they set onto the edge of the pool within his reach, along with a small bundle of cloth. “For your wounds. It’s no bacta, but it will clear infection.” 

With what had likely gotten into the gashes since he’d gotten them, Din wasn’t going to complain. 

Wasn’t like he had any bacta, anyway, and if he had, he would’ve offered it to Nien and their people, for whatever injuries the recovered folks had. 

“Thank you,” he said, instead of any of the other thoughts fumbling around in his head, and they offered another smile, crouched there beside the pool. 

“Your clothes will be dry within a few minutes, I will bring them,” said Marn. “Don’t forget the boots.” 

“Right,” said Din, and Marn left him again. Scrubbing the rest of himself took less time than his hair, at least, and he felt better when the water ran clear. 

He eyed the boots, the gunk encrusted on them. Shook his head slightly, and pushed himself up a bit, resting his elbow on the edge of the pool and reaching for the jar. The contents were green, and smelly, but he smeared the chunky cream over the cuts anyway, carefully wrapping the strips of cloth Marn had left for him around them. Eased himself up onto one of the shallower ledges of the pool, and picked up his boots. 

Wrinkled his nose. 

Oh, he could smell them  _ now. _

No wonder Nien had shooed him off to get cleaned up. 

Din dunked the boots into the water, leaning on the toes of them with his feet to keep them there while he worked off the crud and dirt. Until he could lift them out and tip the water out of them, and there was no blood or chunks of dried slime dropping down into the water. 

Set them on the bank again, and when he looked past them, Marn was headed toward him, a large bundle in their arms. His clothes. 

“Thank you,” he said again, and they handed him two coarse squares of fabric — his towels, he realised. “You’ve been more than generous.” 

“I lost my friend over four rotations of our sun ago,” said Marn. “You brought him back to me.” 

The creature with the canteen. 

“I am glad,” Marn continued, “that you were able to find your lost friend as well. He is important to you.” 

“He is,” said Din, and his voice came out softer than he’d thought, barely a whisper. “Thank you.” 

Marn inclined their head to him, and he slowly returned the gesture. “Join us, when you are dressed,” they said. “I’m sure you are hungry, and we have plenty to share.” They tilted their head, regarding him. “Although perhaps you are in need of rest, first.” 

“Likely,” said Din. “My— friend. Is he…? Has he woken?” 

Marn shook their head. “Not yet,” they said. “But soon.” 

Din watched them walk back up the stairs. 

He believed them. 

_ Soon. _

Dried and dressed again, walking barefoot and hair hanging in damp curls around his ears, Din climbed the steps and left the baths, weaving through the now well-organised infirmary area and finding himself next to Cobb again. Someone had cleaned the slime and blood smears Din had left when he’d sat down before, he noted. 

Wasn’t hard at all to slide to the floor to sit next to him again, either. Din stretched out his legs, leaned his head back, let it roll to the side a bit so he could look down at Cobb. 

Still sleeping, but small tremors ran through him intermittently, each breath accompanied by a shudder. He looked cold. 

And Din was very warm, from the dip in the hot springs. 

There was an unused bedroll tucked by the wall, possibly for his use, but Din didn’t bother to unroll it, just tucked it against the wall, propping the thin pillow someone had left for him on top of it. And he carefully gathered Cobb up into his arms, tucking the blankets more securely around him when they began to slip, tugging the marshal’s body up to lean against him, legs bracketed by Din’s and his head resting on Din’s shoulder. 

He could feel every slow breath puff against his skin, could feel Cobb’s heart beating against his hand when he steadied the marshal to his chest. Could feel how soft Cobb’s silvery hair was, where it fell across the collar of his flightsuit and tickled his skin. 

Cobb shivered again, and Din wrapped his arms more securely around him. 

Pressed his nose down into Cobb’s hair, just for a moment. 

Closed his eyes, just for a moment. 

Just for a moment…


	5. Chapter 5

Someone shouted. 

Din startled awake, arms tightening around the form in his arms on instinct, and he eased his grip immediately, checking that he hadn’t hurt Cobb, his own ribs aching at the movement. 

The marshal still slept, and showed no signs of stirring, even when Din carefully eased himself out from under him and lowered him back to the pallets, tucking the blankets more securely around him again. Someone had tucked another over them both, and he spread that one over Cobb, too. 

Cobb wasn’t shivering anymore, at least, and some colour had returned to his cheeks. Din swept the stray strands of grey hair from the marshal’s forehead, sliding his thumb along one sharp cheekbone. 

His skin was weatherworn, but still soft, and warm to the touch. Not feverish, at least. 

Din let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, and moved the other bedroll — still warm from where he’d been leaning against it — so he could sit beside Cobb again, and keep watch. 

Not that Cobb was in any danger — as Din rubbed a hand through his own hair and blinked the sleep from his eyes, he saw that the open cavern was busy with plenty of motion, creatures heading swiftly to and fro to bring whatever was needed to their companions. There was Marn, offering a cup of something to someone on a pallet— 

—someone, who Din recognised as one he’d borrowed the canteen from. 

Awake, and lucid, from what he could see, returning answers to Marn and saying something that made them smile with their little sharp teeth peeking bright from their mouth. 

And when Din looked around, there were a few others of the rescued, either still laying down but conversing or seated upright, being fussed over by their friends and family. Bright-eyed, animated.  _ Alive. _

“Stranger,” said a voice, and when Din jerked his head forward, Nien was standing in front of him, a small smile on their lips. And a bowl and a cup in their hands, held out to him. “You’ve woken just in time for the noon meal.” 

Din accepted the food and drink — the same mineral-y water, he found, and some sort of soup that had his mouth watering embarrassingly the moment he sniffed it. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice was rough, rattling out of him like he’d swallowed rocks. He sipped the water, cleared his throat. Tried again. “Thank you, Nien.” 

They inclined their head in a slight nod. “You’re welcome.” 

“The others,” said Din, gesturing slowly with the hand holding the cup, not wanting to spill any of its precious contents. “They’re waking up?” 

“Yes,” said Nien, and they sounded pleased. “They have some confusion at the passage of time lost to them, and they seem to be experiencing some general fatigue and chills, but otherwise…” They shook their head, a wide smile spreading over their soft features briefly. “There seems to be no lasting effects of their time in stasis.” 

“That’s good,” whispered Din. He glanced down at Cobb. Wondered how long it would take for the marshal to wake. 

“Once you have eaten, come join me,” said Nien, gesturing to one of the far walls where several other creatures seemed to be organising a collection of medical supplies and mixing things in little bowls. “I have something to return to you.” 

His armor. 

He’d almost forgotten. 

And wasn’t that an odd thought, that he could have possibly forgotten of something that was so much a  _ part _ of him. 

Nien left him to eat in peace, and eat Din did — the soup was hot and hearty, and he drank it from the bowl fast enough to burn his tongue a bit for his impatience, washing it down with the last of the water. His stomach gurgled, making its thoughts known about him leaving its needs unattended for so long, and Din sat for a few minutes to let it settle. Watched Cobb sleep, resting a hand on the marshal’s chest to feel him breathe. 

Shook his head to clear the hazy thoughts settling there, pulling on his boots, which had been kindly left beside him while he’d slept, and took his empty dishes to where others were returning theirs to be washed — and was heartily shooed away from offering to assist with the clean-up, to his chagrin — and wound his way through the maze of pallets and seated individuals to find Nien. 

“Ah, you are ready,” said Nien when they spotted him, and Din wasn’t sure if he was, really. They beckoned, though, and he followed, led through one of the tunnels to another room he had not yet seen, where rows and rows of shining obsidian lined the walls — not just weapons, but small carvings of animals, many that Din recognised and more that he didn’t, and larger pieces lining where the wall met the floor, carved into the shape of massive teeth. 

Impeccably smooth carving, too, he noticed, trailing a finger over one of the largest pieces. Some truly remarkable craftsmanship, although he didn’t know why the carver had chosen that particular shape. 

“Shed teeth, from the beast,” said Nien, almost off-handedly, as they tapped a few lanterns to bring them stuttering to life and illuminate the rest of the room, which held more of the same kind of carvings, same kinds of  _ teeth, _ and several large boxes stacked along one wall. 

“Teeth?” repeated Din, leaning closer to one of the larger ones. He’d seen the beast’s teeth up close, and they hadn’t been black like this. “These are from— the beast?” 

“Yes.” Nien unlatched one of the boxes, heaving to lift the weighty lid. “Once they’re shed, we gather them for other uses. Legend has it that it’s the only substance able to wound the beast, since it is not a magnetic thing to be warped by its lair.” Nien smiled again, swift and gone again. “It pierced the beast’s flesh well enough, we have seen now. Thanks to you, stranger.” 

He’d killed the beast with a weapon of its own making, then, in a way. 

Nien stepped back from the box, gesturing him forward, and Din looked inside. There was his armor, stacked with care alongside other sets of armor, some in obvious disrepair and others nearly complete sets. 

And when he lifted his, there was another set of Mandalorian armor underneath it, pitch black as the obsidian and gleaming just as brightly where it caught the light, with no clan markings on the pauldrons. 

“Of interest to you, stranger?” said Nien, nodding at the armor. “We’ve no use for it.” 

“It belongs to my people,” said Din. 

“Your people?” 

“Mandalorians. Like me.” 

“Mandalorian,” repeated Nien. “Ah, so that is who you are. Yes, you may take it with you, then, when you depart.” 

“Thank you,” said Din, and it was gratefulness for not only the armor, but also that it was freely offered, without hesitation. 

He hoped it wouldn’t become a habit, though, earning the empty armor of other Mandalorians by killing giant beasts. Twice had been more than enough for Din. Any more than that, and maybe he’d have to start wondering what kind of oddities the universe was trying to tell him. 

Nien helped him pack the black armor into a smaller crate, to transport later, and left him alone in the room — not quite an armory, but not  _ not _ one, all the same. Din brushed off his armor, checking that no damage had been done to it, and slowly buckled each piece back onto himself. 

Fully suited, the helmet in his hands staring blankly back at him from its dark visor, Din felt grounded, literally, by the weight of the beskar on his shoulders again. Felt like the ground had steadied, where before he had been floating, just half an inch off step. Even the darksaber swinging from his belt was a familiar weight, again. 

He stared at the helmet for a moment longer, and tucked it under his arm, tapping the lanterns as Nien had to dim them once more, and went back to the main cavern. 

Set it beside Cobb, within eyesight if the marshal were to turn his head — but he still slept, only breath stirring in him, and his pulse was steady and strong when Din checked it. 

“Stranger,” said Marn, and he followed them to where they led — a pile of washing that was being sorted by many hands, having been dried in the sonic and spread out on a low table. Low to him, really, a reasonable height for the shorter creatures. “Here, these are yours, yes?” 

Din picked up the items Marn had pointed to — his gloves, the orange fingertips stained a deeper shade, but clean, even within when he slipped them on. And Cobb’s red scarf, intact by some miracle, but stained darkly in a long patch from Din’s blood. The fabric was as soft as ever when he tied it around his neck, though, the warmth of it settling in as easy as if it had always been there. 

“Thank you,” he said, and they patted his vambrace. “I— can I help? With. Any of this.” 

“You’ve already helped us more than we can repay,” said Marn. “Go, rest. We’ve more to eat, if you are hungry.” Another pat to his vambrace, and they were turning away. 

“You’re sure—” 

“Yes, stranger. Go rest, you’ve earned it.” 

Din sat down beside Cobb once again, shooed away from offering help by anyone else he asked, and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and listening to the low murmur of voices around him. If he focused, he could pick out a word or two, half a scattered conversation, and if he just let the chatter wash over him, it almost felt a bit like being back in the covert hideout, underground in Nevarro, listening to the others bicker and banter, as was their way. 

He missed them. 

They hadn’t always gotten along, but he  _ missed _ them. Hoped that wherever they were, as many as had survived, that they were alright. Were thriving, in their own way. 

Din wasn’t sure what he was doing could be called  _ thriving, _ the way he was drifting from place to place, a hazy existence, but he was living, at least. He had Cobb breathing beside him, slow and steady, muttering something under his breath— 

Din’s eyes snapped open, head whipping around, moving quickly to crouch on one knee beside Cobb. The marshal stirred, brow furrowing, struggling against the confines of the blankets, and Din rested a hand on his chest on instinct. 

“It’s alright, Cobb,” he said, and those long eyelashes fluttered, a flash of hazel visible. “You’re safe, I’m here. It’s alright.” 

Cobb moaned, inhaling deeply, ribs expanding under Din’s hand, and his eyes slid open, blinking slowly at nothing for a moment before his gaze flicked to Din’s arm, following it up to his face. Cobb’s brow furrowed again, and Din tried for a smile. Wasn’t sure how friendly it was, when it felt like his lip might be trembling with the relief soaking through him. 

“It’s good to see you awake,” said Din, and Cobb huffed a laugh, breaking off into a fit of coughing that had Din hurrying to help him sit up a bit, snatching the cup of water someone had left for him and holding it to Cobb’s lips to let him drink, and he did, clearing his throat and coughing again before he was able to sip without coughing. 

Cobb had freed an arm from under the blankets, and his hand rested on Din’s wrists, pushing the cup away. Tongue flicking out to lick the sheen of water from his lower lip, and Din’s eyes tracked the movement shamelessly before he glimpsed his own helmet sitting next to him, and his face felt warm. 

“It’s good to see you again,” said Cobb, the low drawl of his voice soft but  _ familiar, _ just as warm as the voice in his head had been. He glanced beyond Din, gaze sliding back. “Mind telling me where the kriff we are, partner? And,” his gaze dipped to the helmet, “what’s going on with that?” 

“Could be a long story,” said Din, and Cobb shrugged one shoulder. His hand was still on Din’s arm. 

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, am I?” he said, and his hand moved — before Din could mourn the loss of the touch, his fingers curled in the scarf around Din’s neck, tugging lightly. “Looks good on you, Din.” 

“Thank you,” said Din, reaching up to untie it, and his hand froze, hovering over Cobb’s, resting against his chest. “What did you say?” 

“Said it looks good on you.” 

“Not that,” said Din. “After. You called me—”

“Din,” said Cobb, and his brow creased again. “Ah, had the strangest dream. Must’ve bled over a bit, huh.” 

“That’s my name,” said Din, and Cobb’s gaze snapped up to his, eyes widening. “Din Djarin.” 

“Why do I know that?” said Cobb, his voice soft. “Feels like I’ve been floatin’ around, listenin’ to you.” His eyes closed for a moment. “Said y’ were lonely.” 

Din’s hand closed over Cobb’s, holding it to his chest. Wishing for a moment he hadn’t put his gloves back on, so he could feel the marshal’s skin against his. “I’m not sure it was a dream,” he said, keeping his voice low. Cobb looked at him, confusion on his tired face, and Din shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand it, but— I’ve been. Hearing your voice. For awhile, now.” 

“Huh,” said Cobb. His thumb curled to hold onto Din’s fingers. “How ‘bout that.” 

“Sorry about your scarf,” said Din. “I. Might’ve stained it a bit.” 

He got a slight smile for that. “It’s seen worse,” said Cobb. “Keep it, Din. It suits you.” He grimaced, shifting a bit, and frowned at Din. “You didn’t say where we were, either. And where the kriffing  _ hell _ are the rest of my clothes, partner?!” 

A laugh bubbled up in Din’s chest, and he let it out, unable to stop his smile even at Cobb’s half-hearted glare. “I’ll ask where your clothes have gone,” he said. “And we’re on Gudulioth, in the Outer Rim.” 

Cobb stared at him for a moment, then his face eased into a smile as he let out a bark of laughter. “Well, find me those clothes, partner, because I’m kriffing freezing,” he said. “This ain’t how I’d thought my first trip off of Tatooine would go.” 

—

It seemed every single creature who lived in the dwelling system wanted to say their goodbyes and share their thanks with Din before he left, and he’d handed the beskar spear to Cobb just so he could keep his hands free, and partly to give the marshal something to lean on should he need it. Din’s helmet was tucked under the marshal’s other arm, and Din caught his own gaze caught in the blank visor more times than he was willing to admit. 

Even some of the survivors, most of whom had regained consciousness by now, were making their way over to say a few words. 

Din didn’t think he’d ever shaken so many hands in his life. 

“Onaj'lita,” said one of the Twi’leks, sticking out her hand, and Din shook it. 

“Onaj…’lita?” he repeated, and she gave a quick nod, already dropping his hand. 

“That’s me,” she said. Her  _ name, _ he realised, not a greeting. “Me and Tameru,” she gestured to the Zabrak with a low crown of horns and pale peach skin loitering not far behind her, “were wondering if we could hitch a ride on your ship. We don’t have much for credits, but she said she’s pretty handy with mechanics tools, if you need ‘em, and I can cook, if necessary.” 

“Not necessary,” said Din, and saw her face fall. “No, I meant— ah. There’s plenty of room aboard the ship. I can’t promise to take you far, but I can get you started on your way home, at least—” 

_ “Thank _ you!” she crowed, and he froze when she flung her arms around him, uncaring of the beskar armor. Cobb was smiling when Din looked at him, over Onaj’lita’s shoulder, and he awkwardly patted her back. 

The word flew fast that the Mandalorian was willing to transport whoever was willing off of the planet. 

In the end, almost all of the humanoids, including the Twi’leks, the Zabrak, and a Sullustan, were crowded into the cargo bay of Din’s ship, many wrapped in whatever blankets he had and a few generously offered by Nien’s people. Many of them hoping to be returned to their home worlds, to reunite with their loved ones. 

Din didn’t know how many he’d be able to take, or how far, but he had a ship and half a tank of fuel left, and he was willing to let that take them as far as it could go. 

Nien and Marn were two of the ones who walked the crowd of them all to the ship — still where he’d left it, in one piece, thankfully — and had carried with them the box holding the black armor, which Cobb had glanced at curiously and then been distracted by Tameru shyly asking him a question, which he ducked his head to meet hers to answer, still leaning on the beskar spear. 

Din watched as they strapped the box into the cargo bay, fingers itching to help but already having been waved off from assisting. Wondered if it had a chain code embedded in it, like Boba’s had. 

Wondered if he should holo Boba, and ask if he knew. 

If perhaps Boba might know of other coverts, other Mandalorians. 

He hadn’t thought to ask, when they’d been in  _ Slave 1. _ Hadn’t had the time, or the head space for it. Too full of his own grief to care. 

“We owe you more thanks than we can offer,” said Nien, and Din shook his head, at a loss for words. “We have a chance to prosper, now. You made this possible, Mandalorian.” They inclined their head low, smiling when they lifted it. 

For a brief moment, Din could’ve sworn there was another set of eyes blinking up from their face at him — but when he blinked again, they were gone, and Nien looked normal as ever. 

“Goodbye, Mandalorian,” said Nien. “You are welcome here again, should you pass through this side of the Rim.” 

“Thank you, Nien,” said Din, and they shook his hand, their own so small in his gloved one. “For everything.” 

“Thank  _ you,” _ they said, and stepped away, gathering the rest of their people to them, all of them watching as Din made sure everyone who wanted to be was inside the ship before hitting the controls to close the ramp. 

The air inside the ship was cool, and  _ dry, _ so different from the damp mist that had permeated every breath Din had taken on Gudulioth since he landed there. His new passengers were ambling around the cargo bay, poking around at the few items he had in the storage nets, finding places to settle with their blankets and open ration packs to share amongst themselves. 

Din took a moment to make sure a few of them knew where the refresher was, and how it worked, and they assured him they’d assist if others had questions. Made sure they all knew where the food was, and where the ladder to the cockpit was, in case he was needed. 

Which was where he was retreating, a little unnerved by the volume of chatter in his ship. Din caught Cobb’s eye across the cargo bay, nodding up toward the ladder, and saw Cobb say a few words to the near-human he’d been speaking with before breaking off to head across the room toward him. 

Satisfied the marshal would follow him, Din climbed up into the cockpit, taking his seat in the pilot’s chair. Took a deep breath, and looked out through the transparasteel, already itching to launch the ship up into the atmosphere and get them the kriff off of the planet. 

“So this is where the magic happens,” said Cobb, looking around the cockpit, and he grinned at Din. “You gonna let me fly this thing? I used to be a pretty good podracer, back in the day.” 

“Not today,” said Din, and Cobb laughed. “Little different from flying a podracer.” 

“I’d imagine so.” Cobb’s hand trailed over the joystick, ghosting over levers and switches, and he grinned at Din, holding out the helmet. “Need this, partner?” 

Din took the helmet, the beskar heavier than he remembered. He didn’t need it, he realised, looking down at the T visor. 

Maybe he never had. 

“Thank you,” he said, not that he knew what for, and put the helmet on, hearing the soft hiss of the seal connect. Felt the brush of it catch on the fabric of Cobb’s scarf, still tied around his neck. “Sit down, make sure your belt is secure.” 

“Aye, aye, captain,” drawled Cobb, and Din grinned, hidden behind his helmet. 

Cobb settled behind him, and Din went through the familiar-unfamiliar routine of starting up the ship’s systems, his helmet picking up the chatter of the others down in the cargo bay. 

Din had landed on Gudulioth with an empty ship. 

He was leaving the planet with more passengers than he’d ever carried in the  _ Razor Crest _ at once. 

Looking at Cobb in the passenger seat behind him, watching him watch the stars streak by as they sailed through hyperspace, a blanket tucked around him and his silver hair in disarray, Din found he wasn’t so bothered by how many people were currently crowded in the cargo bay of the ship. 

“Got somethin’ on my face?” said Cobb, and Din startled, finding that Cobb was watching  _ him _ now, eyes sparkling with stars and mischief. “Can look all you want, darlin’, I won’t stop ya.” 

Din wondered if the warm feeling spreading in his chest was from the look, or from the term of endearment that fell so easily from Cobb’s tongue, like it was second nature. Like he’d been calling Din that for years, not for the first time in the cockpit of an unfamiliar spaceship, a thousand lightyears from his home. 

— 

Din had seen a lot of sunsets, but Tatooine ones were something else entirely. 

Or maybe it was the company, of sitting on a rooftop with his legs dangling over the edge, of his helmet set at his side and a cooling breeze ruffling his hair and Cobb’s beside him. Tatoo 2 still lingered on the horizon, Tatoo 1 having slid below enough to leave just the thinnest red rim of light, and Cobb held his face upturned to them, eyes closed as he relished the warmth. 

Din could still hear the shouts and cheers from the cantina, many townsfolk still celebrating the return of their —  _ alive and well _ — marshal. It had been hours after they landed before Cobb and Din had been able to extract themselves from the festivities, the teary-eyed folks who wanted to pat their arms and offer hugs and drinks and shoved bowls of food into their hands whether they were hungry or not. Din had eaten a little, because he  _ was _ hungry, and had nudged Cobb’s ankle with his boot and glared at him until the marshal did the same. 

It was nice, to sit and rest for a time. To not think too long on the box of Mandalorian armor in the cargo bay of his ship, of who it might have belonged to and where it might go now, as Din had no covert to return it to, or wonder if perhaps there would be someone else who would be willing and able to put on the armor, to take up the Creed. 

Too many thoughts in his head. Din was  _ tired. _

Tatooine had been the last trip on a long list of planets, hopping all over the Outer Rim in an alarmingly wide spread of locations to where the beast had stolen people away. The ones whose homes lay beyond the Rim, Din had taken to Nevarro, and Cara and Greef had been more than willing to assist the survivors in returning to their homes. 

Onaj'lita and Tameru were both among the crowd, having been quickly enveloped by the community — another Twi’lek, who Cobb had introduced to Din as Issa-Or, and Jo, who Din vaguely recalled from his previous visits to Mos Pelgo, had taken it upon themselves to become fast friends with the newcomers. 

Seeing them, all at ease, and  _ happy _ — it had warmed Din’s heart, a warmth heated further by the spotchka in his belly and Cobb leaning into his side when the crowd pushed them closer together. Din smiled, remembering Cobb’s hand grabbing his to drag him from the cantina. If he flexed his hand, in his glove, he could still feel the phantom touch. 

He hadn’t thought to sit on the roof the last time he’d been there, but Din had a feeling that even if he had, it wouldn’t have been the same. Looking at Cobb, relaxed in the dimming sunlight, a warm poncho — tan as the sands with stripes of pale cream and larger stripes of deep red, with elegant whimsical patterns stitched in along the sleeve-edges and across the chest, the lowest edges of it ragged — and another red scarf on him. 

Cobb was close enough to lean his shoulder into Din’s, if he chose to. Lean on him, if he needed to. The corner of his poncho brushed against Din’s arm, a faint touch through the sleeve of his borrowed shirt, and Din held his breath for a moment, in their shared quiet. Felt the wind tangle his hair, a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. 

“Credit for your thoughts?” said Cobb, eyes still closed, but by the faint smile curling his lips, Din had an inkling that the marshal knew Din was staring at him — he jerked his gaze away, out over the rooftops of Mos Pelgo, the sands beyond the edge of town. 

“Don’t have many left to share,” said Din, and Cobb huffed a laugh. 

“Doubt that’s true, partner.” 

“Not ones that need sharing, then.” 

“Need, or want?” 

Din considered the question. Wished he could explain all the joy and relief warring with the grief and loss inside him, could put it into words and share it with Cobb. Could explain how badly he missed Grogu, in words that made  _ sense. _ Could encompass everything that he really felt. 

Knew, abruptly, that Cobb would listen, if he did. 

He wished— 

He  _ wished—  _

_ Wishes are powerful things, partner. _

Din turned his head, startled, but when he looked at Cobb, at the weary lines of his body and the wind ruffling his silver hair, he knew the marshal hadn’t spoken those words. At least, not aloud. 

“I don’t know who I am,” he said finally. “I don’t— I don’t even know how to figure it out.” 

Cobb glanced at him, eyes half-lidded. “Is that so, partner.” He tilted his head, regarding Din. “We can figure it out together, if you want.”

Din stared at him, and Cobb looked back, sleepy and sincere. “You mean that?” 

Cobb smiled, just a twitch of his lips. “I’ve got all the time on Tatooine for you, darlin’.” 

Din believed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re curious, here is the [poncho](https://amikoroyaiart.tumblr.com/post/641127991721803776/cobb-in-poncho-because-ponchos-are-the-best/) Cobb is wearing :D (art by the beloved Amiko <3)
> 
> Tropes used for the Bingo:  
> \- Cobb’s first time off of Tatooine  
> \- Cuddling for warmth  
> \- Din returning to Mos Pelgo post S2
> 
> Thank you so much for bearing with me through this fic!! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points to anyone who can guess where the fic title is from <3


End file.
